The Contest
by Blade-girls
Summary: COMPLETE! Re-imagining the Horsemen Arc: Methos thinks of another option
1. Default Chapter

AN: The writing team known as Blade-girls accepts absolutely no responsibility for the creation of the concept of The Highlander, nor for ownership of any of its characters.  We frankly wish Davis/Panzer would stop calling us about it.

**_Chapter One_**

Methos awoke to absolute misery. His chest was screaming with each throbbing heartbeat; every breath was agony. He knew instantly that he had died again, and he remembered how. 

He had been about to get into his Jimmy when it had happened – a knife to the heart, courtesy of an old familiar face he'd foolishly thought never to see again. After the stabbing, Methos had just had time enough to note the identity of his assailant, speak his name, and experience a generalized wave of shock and fear. Sinking into the inevitable blackness, he also felt a passing annoyance that he'd chosen this of all days to wear a brand new sweater. 

Now he found himself in what appeared to be an abandoned power station – there never seems to be a shortage of sinister deserted buildings for this sort of thing, he reflected grimly -- being taunted by his strutting kidnapper. The man had a taste for the sensational, but Methos knew from long experience that he was someone to be feared. 

"So you've come to kill me," he said to Kronos. 

"It's what I do best," leered his former crony. But after more discussion it became clear that Kronos was really after something else. "I'm giving you a choice: You can lose your head…or join me." 

Not much of a choice, Methos thought. Joining Kronos meant a return to old ways long cast off, and Methos hated regression. Life should always be about change and forward progress. Dying, on the other hand, had the element of change going for it, but represented the ultimate _halt_ in forward progress. What to do, what to do… 

He was right on the point of hedging his bets, of playing along with Kronos to buy some time to figure a way out, when something unexpected popped into his mind and past his lips. 

"How about what's behind door number three?" He himself was amazed at having uttered it, but kept his air of detached cynicism firmly in place. 

"I give you an important choice to make, and you answer with a joke," Kronos intoned, shaking the shackles he held ominously. Methos suppressed a sigh. Always one for dramatic excess was Kronos. He did so lack balance. "Not a very smart course of action under the circumstances. Your mental gifts are not what they used to be, brother." 

"Not at all," said Methos evenly. "You offered me a choice; I'm simply returning the favor." Seeing Kronos' puzzled expression, he continued. 

"Here's how I see it, Kronos: You want to return to the glory days of the Horsemen, but you need someone to plot and to strategize; someone to temper your tendency to rush in with guns blazing when a quiet ambush with knives is called for." The irony of how he had come to be sitting here registered briefly before he shrugged it aside. 

He paused, noting Kronos' glaring silence, then continued again. 

"So you create a situation in which you feel I'll be forced to join you, knowing as you do that survival is always my top priority." 

"It's truly your greatest talent, brother." 

Methos gave a sarcastic nod of thanks. "But there's a rub here, isn't there? You may not want to believe it, but you know that I, unlike you, have _changed_ since we were together. You've learned how I've been living these last two thousand years. You know I'm not the guy who once rode with you." 

Kronos said nothing; he continued to stare unblinking into Methos' eyes, half-smiling. 

"And I think you know that if I'm _forced_ into doing something," he leaned closer to Kronos, "you can never be sure that I won't find a way to…improve the situation." 

"Ah, Methos, you haven't changed as much as you believe. You've just tried to deny your true nature. I saw this starting to happen to you two thousand years ago. I'd have helped you halt it, if you'd have let me. And as for not being able to trust you," – here Methos saw Kronos finger his blade absently – "I know very well how your mind works. Keeping a step ahead of you will be a worthwhile price for your considerable services, brother." 

"Perhaps," Methos granted, dearly wishing Kronos would drop the brother crap, "but what if I offered you a chance to win my wholehearted cooperation – a happy camper instead of a partner by force?" 

Kronos smiled his disbelief. "And just how would I get that from you?" 

"We'll strike a bargain, make a wager. A contest, just like the old days." He noted the spark in Kronos' eyes at that. "If I win, you exit stage right and never darken my life again. No challenge, no head-taking, just 'sayonara, sweetheart' and you're on your merry way." 

Arms folded, Kronos chuckled, happy to indulge him for the time being. "And if _I_ win…?" 

Methos sighed, to underscore the point. "Then I surrender. I join you, resume my place at your right hand…and the Four Horsemen ride again." 

He waited a beat, watching as Kronos' expression turned almost comically to surprise, just as Methos had known it would. He, unlike his captor, was a virtuoso of drama. 

"What do you mean, the Horsemen ride ag—" 

"I know where to find Caspian and Silas," Methos said deliberately, pausing for yet another bit of dramatic effect. "I can take you to them…but only if the wager is made." 

Kronos stared at him for a long moment. The beating of his heart was no longer painful, but Methos was uncomfortably aware of it anyway. 

"Tell me what you have in mind, brother." 

Ten minutes later, Kronos was laughing, but the hard edge in the sound eradicated any hint of humor. "You were always the mad one!" he cried with almost grudging admiration. "Can you honestly think I'd accept these terms? It's ludicrous." 

"No more ludicrous than many of our past contests, really. Just a bit updated." 

"It's a ridiculous suggestion, really beneath you. You must have come to cherish life a lot less than I remember in the past two thousand years." 

"You know as well as I do that the content of the contest is irrelevant to the gravity of the dispute. That was always our way." 

"You talk so reverently about the old days, brother," Kronos said with vicious heartiness, his voice ringing through the empty building. "And yet where have you been all these centuries but running from them – hiding from your true self, from me." Putting his sword to Methos' neck, his voice lowered abruptly, infinitely more threatening. "I can take what I want from you right now, without any games, without any bargains." 

Steadily (though with some effort), Methos replied, "You can't do that without breaking the cardinal rule, the one that you created and we enforced." 

Still holding the sword to Methos' throat, Kronos looked him in the eye for a moment before saying, "We never raise a blade to each other…in anger." He took a step back, lowering his steel but not his steely gaze, once again half-smiling. He was clearly appreciating Methos' agility in finding just the right notes to sound, again and again. 

Careful not to gulp noticeably, Methos nodded. "You can take my head, sure. That's not what you want. You can probably force me to come with you, but again, that's not what you want. What you want, Kronos, what you _truly_ want from me, you can only get with the contest." He leaned back and cocked his head slightly, affecting his trademark look of detachment and nonchalance. 

"What I offer you, if you win…is loyalty." He took a breath, forced himself to add, "…brother." 

Kronos' eyes burned into his, afire with the promise of choices. 

A short time later, Methos left the abandoned building, alone and intact, hands thrust casually into his coat pockets, his easy stride belying the churning he felt inside. He had won the first hand, but he was playing a game fraught with risk, and there were a great many wild cards in the deck he was using. There was certainly no cause for celebration yet, nor even for relaxation. 

At least, he noted with a downward glance, the knife had somehow left no hole in his new sweater.


	2. Chapter Two

**_Chapter Two _**

The outside of MacLeod's dojo looked the same, somewhat seedy and deserted. Methos was very thankful for the deserted part right now. The last thing he needed was a parade of clan members, calling on 'the MacLeod' for help. It was going to be difficult enough to convince MacLeod to help him without an audience. This problem required privacy and delicacy to resolve. 

The long walk from the abandoned power station had given Methos some time to formulate a plan. The wager was made, but Methos knew Kronos was not above stacking the deck in his favour; that just meant that cunning and guile would be necessary. Methos was comfortable with that; he hadn't survived five thousand years without embracing some underhanded methods himself. If Kronos wanted to stack the deck, he would soon find that his 'right-hand man' had a few wild cards up his sleeve. 

Five feet away from the doors of the dojo, Methos stopped. It was better to stay just out of sensing range of MacLeod; Methos did not doubt that Kronos would follow him. Hopefully, his seemingly random twists and turns on the walk over had muddled the trail sufficiently. Ironically, the slow physical twists had paralleled the rapid mental twists required by the situation. Slouching a little further into his long coat, and once more marvelling at the pristine state of his sweater, Methos reviewed his plan. 

"The important thing now is to convince MacLeod to help me. I can't possibly handle Kronos by myself anymore. He's grown more erratic with the passing years. He never would have taken me down in public like that five hundred years ago." A passing pedestrian shot a worried look toward the strange man talking to himself, but Methos didn't even notice. He had bigger problems than being thought odd. 

"I'm going to have to tell the Boy Scout at least some of the truth; but not all of it. No, the Highlander cannot accept who I once was. He only needs to know that a dangerous man is threatening the world, and I cannot stop him alone. Friendship, and the terms of the wager, should take care of the rest." Unfortunately, the plan provided precious little comfort now that the time had come to implement it. 

Swallowing his fear, a somewhat damp and harried looking Methos strode slowly into the dojo, where an equally harried looking Duncan MacLeod met him. Opening his mouth to invoke the protection of Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, Methos was summarily cut off by the one question he didn't want to hear. 

"Methos, glad you're here. Have you ever heard of an immortal named Kronos?"   
The Old Man's vaunted air of detachment failed him utterly. "K-Kronos? Um, why do you want to know?" 

The calm, cool, sardonic part of Methos, the part that had served him so well during his recent confrontation with Kronos, struggled to control the atavistic fear that coursed through his limbs. He had a sudden urge to confess the whole truth to MacLeod, and deal with the fallout afterward. What is it about MacLeod that throws me out of character so badly? It's a wonder I'm still alive after spending so much time with him, Methos thought. 

MacLeod, meanwhile, continued awaiting the information he was sure Methos could provide. Methos opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Drawing a deep breath, and calling on some calming mantras learned on one of his sojourns to Tibet, he tried again. 

"Kronos is a very old, very dangerous immortal. He has little regard for human life, and a horribly inflated opinion of his own worth. He is a megalomaniac, with a flair for the overly-dramatic … and he is the reason I came here today." 

Duncan MacLeod was completely flummoxed by Methos' short speech. Although the tone had been that of his friend, the honesty underlying the words contradicted everything he knew of the world's oldest immortal. Part of him instinctively distrusted Methos' sudden decision to give a straight answer to a simple question. The greater part of him, however, responded to the vulnerability and fear he sensed oozing off the older immortal. 

"I need a favour, MacLeod," Methos continued. "Kronos is here, he has a plan to do harm to untold numbers of people, and I need your help to stop him." 

Stopping for breath, and to keep from revealing more than MacLeod needed to know, Methos was transfixed by the sensation of another immortal. Turning to scan the room, he noted that the elevator from the loft was about to disgorge its occupant. 

The lift doors opened, and a woman who looked like she had been crying stepped out. "Look, Duncan, I know I said I'd wait upstairs, but I have to help. I have to do something," she stated as she walked into the dojo. As she did, she caught sight of Methos, who had frozen in place. 

"You!" Cassandra screamed, drawing her sword. MacLeod instinctively stepped between the two immortals. 

Throwing his hands in the air, Methos reverted to sardonic type. "Great, it never rains but it bloody pours, doesn't it? Do something MacLeod, your _guest_ seems determined to skewer me." A note of desperation coloured the last words, ruining the image of unflappability that Methos was trying so hard to project. 

MacLeod, his arms full of a very angry and determined Cassandra, thought he _was_ doing something. He turned to advise Methos to run, but what he saw on his friend's face made his words stop in his throat. 

Methos had all but collapsed on one of the dojo benches. He was shaking his head, and had an air of complete defeat. Looking up, Methos stared directly at Cassandra. "Hello Cassandra, you're looking well." 

"You know her?" MacLeod had gone from protective to puzzled. A part of his mind noted that this was not uncommon where the world's oldest immortal was concerned. He was even beginning to wonder if Methos did it on purpose, keeping everyone around him off balance to make surviving easier. 

"Know me? Know me?" Cassandra shrugged out of Duncan's loosened grasp. "Of course he knows me, he was one of them, a Horseman. He was responsible for the destruction of my tribe and for enslaving me." As she spoke, Cassandra paced the dojo floor, arms and sword swinging wildly, each word driving her to new heights of anger and passion. 

"He was Death, the brains of the Horsemen. He rode with Kronos, Caspian and Silas for a thousand years, killing, raping and pillaging as he pleased. He captured me, and then taught me to fear and serve him. He ruled my life; he was my life!" With a quick spin, Cassandra once again thrust her sword in Methos' direction. MacLeod followed her closely, ready to avert bloodshed. 

"Death … it was the perfect role for him. I was convinced that he alone could bring me back to life; he alone had the power to deny me that final gift. All those I had loved were gone, and this," she gestured angrily toward a silent Methos, "was what replaced them. A thief, a killer, a rapist who thought of no one but himself and his _brothers_." The last was said with such distaste that Cassandra all but spat the word out like poisoned wine. 

MacLeod, silent during Cassandra's indictment of his friend, turned to Methos with hope and fear in his gaze; hope that Methos would deny the allegations, and fear that he wouldn't. "Methos …?" 

"I'm sorry MacLeod. Everything she says is true." Methos drew a deep breath, the only outward indication of how this admission pained him. Swallowing hard, he continued. 

"I was the monster that mothers warned their children about. I killed, and I killed wantonly. No one was safe, not the people living in quiet villages, not the merchants in the caravans, not the soldiers defending those caravans. We were strong, and we took what we wanted." Resignation echoed in Methos' tone, the words rang with painful truth. Duncan shifted uncomfortably, and with a sudden burst of earnestness, Methos continued before MacLeod could interrupt. 

"You have to remember MacLeod, the times were different then. What you had was what you could hold. The more you had, the harder you fought to keep it. We had power, and we did all we could to keep it. If that involved hurting others, well, that was the way of the world then." Closing his eyes briefly, Methos mentally strengthened himself with a meditation mantra. He then turned toward the woman who had inspired memories of desire and revulsion in him for two thousand years. 

"Cassandra," he said quietly, "I can't tell you how many times I have thought of you over the years, always with regret. I cannot bring your people back, and I cannot change what happened then, but know that _I_ have changed. Death is long gone, relegated to well-hidden journals. Your people live on in you, they –" 

"Do you really think I believe any of your lies? You must remember that weak, cowed girl who lived for a brief smile from you, or a gentle caress of your hand." Cassandra was in higher temper now than she had been earlier. 

"Don't try your tricks on me, Methos. I see the light of Death in your eyes when you speak of the past. I see your nostrils flare, filling with the scent of remembered blood. When I close my eyes, I can still see the look of disdain on your face as you allowed Kronos to take me from your tent. I screamed your name; I waited for you to save me." Cassandra stalked closer to her prey. 

"After I stabbed Kronos and escaped through the desert, dying countless times, never knowing if this would be the last, I vowed to myself that I would never forgive you." Cassandra's sword was suddenly menacing Methos' neck, and he wondered if this was the end. 

MacLeod quickly stepped forward, pulling Cassandra and her sword away. "Methos, I don't know --. Maybe you should --." 

"Look, MacLeod, I know this is hard for you to understand." Methos could hear the impending dismissal in Duncan's tone, and rushed to disarm the Scot before he could show Methos the door. 

"I'm not trying to excuse what I did, and I'm certainly not asking for your forgiveness. I have lived with my regrets for much longer than you have been alive. I have accepted who I was, and I have changed." Cautiously standing and turning toward Cassandra, Methos continued. 

"You have changed over the millennia, don't you think it possible that I have also? You don't know me, not as the man I am now. Give yourself a chance to see that, then decide if I still need to pay for crimes two thousand years old." 

Methos felt he had done all he could. He could still see the questions in MacLeod's eyes, and the hatred in Cassandra's. He wondered if Cassandra was right about seeing Death in his. While he hoped she was wrong, he feared she was not. 

Finally, MacLeod spoke. "Why did you admit to this Methos? You could have run from here, disappeared off to Bora Bora, and never had to deal with any of this." 

"I told you," Methos said calmly, "Kronos is back, and he wants me back too. I don't want to go back to that life MacLeod." Ignoring Cassandra's disbelieving snort, Methos continued, "I have a plan that would remove Kronos from all our lives, but I'm going to need your help to pull it off." 

Turning unconsciously imploring eyes on MacLeod, Methos leaned back against the wall of the dojo to await their answers.


	3. Chapter Three

**_Chapter Three _**

He waited, aware for the third time this evening of the pounding of his own heart. Absolutely everything was at stake, and it was all up to MacLeod now. Watching him, Methos could plainly see the younger immortal's struggle to decide what was right. 

Methos reflected with some amusement – which he did not display – that MacLeod's strict code of honor coupled with his complete lack of duplicity made carefully watching his face the closest possible thing to mind-reading. The old man's observations were now telling him that a desperate war was being waged within the Highlander's head. 

MacLeod looked at Cassandra, the most terrifying wild card Methos could possibly imagine. He was no longer stunned by her presence – clearly, she was here because she'd been tracking Kronos – but he fervently wished she were elsewhere, for many reasons. The most pressing one right now was that she could tip the scales away from MacLeod lending his help with the plan. 

MacLeod's eyes traveled from Cassandra to Methos, who tried to look his most unimposing and needy. Then MacLeod looked back to Cassandra, and Methos felt his side of the seesaw rising. Intervention was required. 

"Look, MacLeod," he said, causing the other two immortals to jump at the breaking of silence, "let's take this to a less public venue, shall we? Anyone could walk in here, and we don't need any more players." 

Duncan considered this for a moment before saying, "All right, up to the loft, then." Cassandra glared at Duncan, but stopped short of protesting as he touched her arm in a silent request for indulgence. She made sure Methos went into and out of the elevator before her. 

Once in the loft, Methos did not help himself to a beer, nor did he sprawl in carefree comfort. He sat properly on a straight-backed chair and waited for the other two to stake out their own territory before speaking, humbly, in a non-inflammatory tone. 

"If I wanted to rejoin Kronos, I'd be with him right now, you know." That seemed like a good thing to get out on the table right away. "I'm here because I can't take Kronos down by myself. I need the help of someone I can trust." 

Cassandra's laugh was so bitter Methos could almost taste it. "Trust! The concept is as foreign to you as Mars is to an earthworm. He doesn't trust you, Duncan, he just knows he can use you, exploit your sense of honor and loyalty." 

"Not true," said Methos, his tone light and sardonic. "I'm trying to exploit his sense of indebtedness. Can we say, 'dark quickening?'" Mentally, he kicked himself for being overly flippant and added more seriously, "But I don't think I'm wrong in believing the flow of trust has gone both ways over the years, am I?" It never hurt to play the debt card with an honorable man. 

Duncan's expression changed, became less certain. He was clearly acknowledging the truth of the old immortal's words in the internal conversation he was having. Cassandra saw this as well and pounced in fresh fury. 

"You can't be considering this! It's ridiculous to think you can even believe him. This, this…_man_"--she said it as though she meant "worm" or "rat"—" would sell you out to the highest bidder to save his own head, and he wouldn't have a moment's unrest about it after." 

To Methos' quiet delight, he saw that her extreme prejudice was beginning to backfire, pushing Duncan toward a defensive stance over someone he still considered a friend, despite some lingering questions, some new doubts, and the ubiquitous gray areas. 

"You've told me what you experienced with him, and the Horsemen," Duncan said gently but with resolve, "but you don't know what _I've_ experienced. I realize I don't know all the truth," he tossed a sidelong glance in the old man's direction, "but I do know there are layers of it, and they're not all black and white." 

His calm seemed to fuel Cassandra's rage, or maybe it was just that she sensed the tide turning in Methos' favor. "Truth! When it comes to him, there is no truth! There is no black or white, there is only what he needs and what he can make you believe to get it." Methos shifted uneasily, knowing that she wasn't far wrong. 

She had been storming about the dojo with violent gestures and much pivoting and pacing, but now she was looking at Methos and her body was suddenly quiet. He held his breath a moment – had she seen his own misgivings reflected on his face? 

Almost in response, she shook her head slightly. "You monster. You'll use him, a good man, a man you've convinced that you are worth caring about, and you'll toss him to the animals to throw them off your scent." 

The chair was suddenly too uncomfortable to sit on for one second more. Methos got to his feet a little faster than he meant to, shoved his hands into his trench coat pockets with more force than intended. He stepped away from both of them, toward the outside wall of the living room, calling once again on those mantras. He was using them more tonight than he had in the past six months. 

Even when he heard MacLeod shouting Cassandra's name, it didn't quite penetrate the din of his own consternation, the struggle for self-control. She was nearly upon him, sword ready for business, before he realized he needed to turn around. The world's greatest survivor, he thought bitterly, nearly taken down with his back deliberately turned to a known enemy. What a note that would make in the Watchers' annals. 

There was no time to draw his steel. He could only duck her first stroke, aimed with an admirable lack of preamble at his neck, and lunge away from her wilder second swing. As her anger swelled she left herself open to counterattack, and Methos sprang forward, grabbing the wrist of the hand wielding the sword and blocking assaults from her free hand. Forcing her sword hand backward caused her to take a step in that direction, and he used the momentum to spin her back hard toward the corner of the room. 

Slamming her into the wall, he felt an unexpected and potent flood of revulsion such as he'd never experienced during any physical confrontation. She was kicking, bucking, fighting to regain positioning for another attack, but the more he applied force to her, the more he tasted bile. In spite of the situation, he released her, suddenly terrified by the betrayal of his survival instinct and his own mind and body. 

She misread his look and actions as simple fear and pressed her advantage, backing him against the adjacent wall with her sword under his chin, locking her triumphant eyes with his bewildered ones. The whole incident had taken just seconds and Duncan was now at her side, dragging her away with one arm, disarming her with the other. He failed to notice how easily the sword came out of her hand. 

Methos, even in his distress, was aware of what he and his attacker had communicated in that brief moment of close eye contact. She had read him much more accurately in that instant than she had the few seconds before – maybe more accurately than anyone _ever_ had done -- and what she'd seen had mystified and profoundly disturbed her. 

Join the club, sweetheart, he thought limply, wiping his brow with a shaking hand.


	4. Chapter Four

**_Chapter Four _**

Duncan stopped pulling Cassandra when he realized she was moving away from Methos of her own accord, nearly collapsing onto the sofa. Methos remained wedged into the corner, breathing heavily, his eyes half-closed but still on her. Duncan stood halfway between them, frowning, knowing that something more than the attack had passed between the two but unable to say what. 

Duncan's uncertain hovering was amusing to Methos, perhaps because he himself was fighting a bit of shock and hysteria, and he chuckled softly as MacLeod struggled to define his role in this moment. The emotional link continued to throb between Methos and Cassandra, as palpable in the room as a massive electric current, and Duncan was obviously uncomfortable about not fully understanding its content. 

"Relax, MacLeod," Methos said mildly, almost genially. "We'll be good." He made a show of removing his rumpled trench coat – which they all knew contained his sword – and tossing it onto a nearby table. Straightening his sweater, he moved with deliberation to sit down again, this time in a cushioned chair adjacent to the sofa, but at the far end from Cassandra. 

He was not surprised by his own composure. He had a façade to resurrect, and fast. 

Cassandra's eyes still burned into his. He faced her calmly and said, "I hope you see now that I mean you no harm." She narrowed her eyes and sneered her answer to that, which he ignored; he'd said that merely to remind MacLeod that his actions during the clash just now had been purely defensive and, ultimately – never mind the reasons – self-sacrificing. 

Duncan moved to sit beside Cassandra, giving Methos an excuse to check his face and see that the younger immortal had indeed gotten the point. The hum of anxiety in Methos' head began to diminish minutely. 

"Why don't you tell me exactly what you want from me, Methos?" Hallelujah, the Highlander had decided at last to cut to the chase, if only to hasten his departure and hopefully forestall another conflict. Methos leaned toward him slightly, monitoring his own intensity carefully. 

"I got Kronos to agree to a wager tonight," he said. "If I win, he makes tracks for parts unknown and I never hear from him again." 

Duncan and Cassandra stared at him as though waiting for a punch line. More explanation was clearly called for. 

"You see, back when we were all together," he was trying to avoid the "H" word and setting off Cassandra all over again, "there were often disagreements, primarily between Caspian and Silas. Those two were always fighting over some piece of plunder, food...it was always something." Women were also a frequent bone of contention, but that was a subject to be skirted around just now. 

"For a long time, we lived with the constant fear that one of them would get the drop on the other and take his head before Kronos or I could intervene. Kronos had long before decreed that everything we had was to be shared, but disagreements still erupted. 

"So, Kronos declared a new rule of the brotherhood: 'We never take a blade to each other in anger.'" Methos noted Cassandra's darkening expression of recognition. "And that worked, to a point. At least, they could be persuaded to drop their weapons at the mere mention of that rule. But we still lacked a mechanism for resolving disputes." 

Cassandra gave an impression of bored hostility, but MacLeod was clearly engaged. It gave the old man renewed energy as he resumed the tale. 

"So I came up with the idea of the contests. Simply put, they were non-lethal competitions, and usually non-combative. The idea was to take the focus away from the antagonism during the contest, so that by the time a winner was declared, the loser could accept defeat without requiring revenge." 

"How civilized," Cassandra observed dryly. 

"What kinds of competitions?" Duncan wanted to know. 

Methos sat back, not quite sprawling, appearing to relax and giving the impression of having to think about it a little. "Well, let's see...Once, we had them climb to the topmost branches of a tall tree, and hang from them for as long as they could. The one to stay up longest without losing his grip or having the branch break was the winner. Silas' weight got the better of him in that one. 

"Another time, we had them bury themselves in sand up to the neck and piled feathers in a circle drawn a few inches in front of each man's face. The first man to blow all the feathers out of his circle was the victor. Silas walked away with that one. What a set of lungs, even compressed by sand." A ghost of a smile played on his lips as he remembered Silas' childlike glee at winning that particular competition. He'd gotten to keep a goat as a pet rather than have it become a meal. 

"So, you convinced Kronos to do something like that?" 

"He agreed to settle our dispute with a contest, right." 

"The dispute being whether or not you rejoin him as his partner in evil." 

"More or less." Methos met Duncan's gaze levelly, suppressing a shrug that he felt would not enhance his appearance of sincerity. Cassandra gave a snort as she turned her head away. Duncan's expression was not that of a man convinced he's hearing the truth. 

"Sorry, Methos, but I find it hard to believe that Kronos would be willing to bet something he wants that badly on the outcome of some silly contest." 

There it is, Methos thought. He'd hoped MacLeod would accept the wager at face value. It would have been simpler that way. No matter; he had it covered. 

"I said he'd agreed, not that I expected him to honor the agreement." He noted with satisfaction Cassandra's head snapping back toward him and MacLeod's raised eyebrows. 

"You think he'll renege if he loses?" 

"I'm sure of it. He'll likely cheat as well, if he can figure a way." 

"So what's the point of the contest if—" 

"The point is that it's a throwback to the old days, which Kronos is desperate to recreate. He may not intend to cooperate if he loses the challenge, but he'll bloody well participate." 

"Yeah, but if you win—" 

"If _we_ win." Methos waited for the expected look of surprise and was not disappointed. 

"We? You mean, you and me?" 

"And a third, if we can find one." 

"I thought this contest was for you and Kronos alone." 

"He wanted it that way, but I insisted on teammates. It makes it harder for him to force the outcome his way, evens the odds a bit. More variables, less control." 

"So who is Kronos bringing in?" 

"Don't know; that's his problem. The identities of my teammates are irrelevant to him, too. What matters to him is that I've resurrected a ritual from the days when we rode together." Methos stole a fleeting glance at Cassandra. Her continued silence was a worry. 

"But if the outcome doesn't really matter—" 

Methos allowed himself a burst of impatience. "Of course it matters! You want to know why I don't just fight him and get it over with, don't you? Well, the answer is – because I'd lose! We're not equals anymore, not even close. I've grown and evolved while he's remained as brutal and savage as he was two thousand years ago. The man I am now doesn't stand a ghost of a chance fighting a man who's dreamed of nothing but power and death for thousands of years." 

Cassandra broke her silence to snort her derision. "Coward! No stomach for killing anymore, and no guts to face your own death." 

"If cowardice is the desire to remain alive, fine, I'm a coward. I know a fight will be necessary by the time this is done. But I want it to be on my terms, in my own time." Methos sat back, projecting calm once more. "Before I can challenge Kronos, I need to even the playing field, put us on the same level—but outside of a context of violence. The contest will serve the purpose it was designed for: to distract from the original conflict. Within the structure of the contest, we will become equals again, and _that_ is the mindset I need both of us to be in before I face him with a sword." 

He could see Duncan was becoming convinced. The deed was nearly done. 

"But for the contest to work, I need a team. I need someone I know I can trust, MacLeod, to help me do what must be done—not just for me, but for the good of all the people Kronos will hurt if he isn't dealt with." 

Duncan rose from the sofa, walked a few steps, rubbing the back of his neck. Then he turned, arms folded. "Okay, I'm in. But we still need a third." 

Methos' sigh of relief was barely visible. "Yes. I was thinking Richie, or perhaps Aman—" 

"I'm doing it," Cassandra said brusquely. 

"What?" Duncan looked incredulous. 

"Absolutely not!" thundered the world's oldest immortal, all calculated thought momentarily forgotten. 

"You need a third, and you don't have much time. Kronos will lose patience soon enough. You've managed to convince Duncan to throw in with you, and I'm coming in to look out for him." 

"Cassandra, I don't need a protector. I know what I'm getting into." 

"Not a protector, just another set of eyes and ears. And as for what you're getting into…well, only one of us here really knows the truth of that." She glared at Methos, daring him to protest. 

He only sat staring at her, calculations flying once again. Having her in the contest was the last thing he wanted. Just being near her excited too many emotions, stirred up uncomfortable memories. She was a distraction, and an avowed enemy, and the sum of everything he had ever hated or loved. 

But she would be something else again for Kronos. Having her in the mix could prove useful in disturbing the emotional state of the man who wished to lay claim to Methos' freedom. 

It was the best of ideas; it was the worst of ideas. 

"All right," he said. "You're in." 

"On one condition," she said, sliding along the sofa toward his chair. She leaned in close and he could feel the desert heat radiating from her body. "If anything happens to Duncan, and you still live, you will face me. No running, no maneuvering. Just a fair fight." 

She had placed her hand on the arm of his chair, as close as she could be without actually touching him anywhere. Her hair exuded scents too modern to be remembered from their time together, but which somehow seemed familiar. With a start, he realized he was breathing hard, erratically. 

"It's a deal," he managed. She leaned back, satisfied, and the temperature of the room returned to normal.


	5. Chapter Five

**_Chapter Five _**

Methos closed the door of his apartment behind him, leaning on it for a moment before carefully engaging all three locks. He didn't turn on the lights, preferring the illumination provided by the cityscape spread before him through the floor length windows that served as the outside wall. Glancing around the studio-style condominium, he reflected briefly on the immortal penchant for open, easily defended spaces. 

Removing his coat, but keeping the Ivanhoe nearby, Methos sank gratefully into a low, over-stuffed armchair. He considered grabbing a beer, but determined it unworth the effort; exhaustion, both physical and mental, lined his face. 

Well, the deed was done; MacLeod had promised his support. Not, however, without first dragging more of the truth out of Methos than the oldest immortal had intended. If only Cassandra hadn't been there, and hadn't insisted on becoming involved. Methos stiffened as thoughts of Cassandra filled his mind. Rising, he decided perhaps a beer _was_ in order. 

Beer in hand, Methos slowly made his way out of the kitchen area. His steps were automatic, as his mind replayed those moments with Cassandra in the loft. She had changed over the millennia. She had become a frightfully astute _woman_. One not fooled so easily as the _girl_ had been, first into believing he cared, and then into believing he didn't. That last thought brought Methos up short. Dear God, had he really cared for her? 

Perching on the edge of his chair, Methos tried to be honest with himself. It was a practice begun shortly after he left the Horsemen, and one that had stood him in good stead through the years. He realized he was more unsettled now than he had been since those last days with his brothers. During the confrontation at MacLeod's he had veered from his usual self-possession to an almost reckless disregard for his own head. His emotional barometer was swinging like it was hurricane season and he was living on the coast. 

The last time Methos could recall feeling this way was shortly after Cassandra escaped the Horsemen. Kronos had been _displeased_, but Methos hadn't really cared. The same sense of dislocation and shock had pervaded his mind then too. But, if he was going to be honest with himself, and he was, loss had been his predominant feeling then. Loss of something just beyond his reach, something not quite recognized. Methos dragged the almost forgotten bottle of beer to his mouth, swallowing blindly until lungs desperate for air forced him to stop for breath. 

Gulping air like he had the beer moments before, Methos recognized a truth he had long denied. It was that sense of loss that had prompted him to search for something more fulfilling than a life of killing and pillaging. He had finally found some of the things he longed for in his current life … friendship, love, and good company. The fact that his search had taken so long only made him cherish these things more dearly. 

Methos realized that he was not ready to give up his life, either to the machinations of Kronos, or to the resentments of Cassandra. Her addition to the contest raised the stakes considerably. Leaning back once again in his chair, Methos eyed his nearby chess set. Lifting the queen, he pondered the board, and his current schemes. 

******************************************** 

Kronos snapped his cell phone open with a quick flick of his wrist. Ah, instant communications, so much faster than the old days. These days of cellular phones, instant messaging and access to vast amounts of information on the internet favoured men like him, men of action. 

"Yes," he barked. Few people had this number, and he did not have to be polite to any of them. "What's that? Well of course he is, I told you he would return. Yes, well, I know my brother. No, stay there, watch him … and if he leaves, follow him. And _don't_ lose him again." The threat was implicit in Kronos' tone. 

Closing the phone and placing it back in the pocket of his leather jacket, Kronos picked up the knife he had been cleaning and sharpening when the phone rang. So, the rabbit had returned to his hole; Kronos had been sure he would. Methos had always relied on having time and space to formulate his best plans. Often, he would closet himself in his tent for days, planning their next raid or evaluating the strengths and weaknesses of the last one. 

Kronos recalled having to fetch his thoughtful brother more than once so he wouldn't miss one of Caspian's _entertainments_. Each time, Methos seemed offended that his sanctum had been violated. Wouldn't he be upset to know that I have someone watching his every move? Kronos laughed aloud at this thought, the sound echoing through the empty room. 

"Ah, brother," Kronos mused aloud, "I have bested you once already. You think that I am so easily outmanoeuvred. Plan all you want in your dark room, I will be one step ahead of you all the way." 

Kronos noted with amusement that his heart rate had increased. His senses were humming, alert to the smallest sounds, from the dripping of water off a nearby pipe, to his own quiet breathing. He had missed this feeling, the anticipation of locking horns with an able opponent. Placing the knife back on the small table before him, Kronos examined all the weapons he had lain out, and began to plan their best uses. 

********************************************* 

Methos idly replaced the queen on the chessboard. The best thing he could say about his plan right now was that he had adapted to changing circumstances; he had improvised. That thought rang a bell in his mind, and he recalled his last improvisation. It had resulted in near disaster for Joe, MacLeod, himself, and many others. Shaking his head, Methos finished his beer and resolved that this situation would end differently. 

Lifting a white pawn, Methos held it poised over the board briefly before placing it deliberately in an opening gambit position. Kronos had taken the wager; he had unwittingly given Methos the time he needed to plan. As with all opening gambits, this one set the board in motion. It was open now to move and counter-move. 

The white knight glimmered in the reflections of the city lights. Methos reached out to run a finger down its proud mane. "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he murmured, "protector of the innocent, defender of the wronged. I am neither, and still he comes to my aid." 

Methos had a brief pang of something that felt suspiciously like guilt. MacLeod had indeed agreed to assist him in his plan, and had not pressed for details. How would the noble Scot react when faced with the other Horsemen? Unconsciously, Methos checked the position of his Ivanhoe. Catching himself, he realized he'd answered his silent question. 

The urge to pick up his sword conquered, Methos stared at the other pieces of the set. He still had many pawns to carefully place before the contest, some were expendable, and some were not. Safeguards must be imposed on the actual field to protect the important pieces. As he plotted position and strategy, his eyes were drawn again to the lonely queen. So regal she looked, but she was a deadly piece. Her moves could determine victory or disaster. 

With great care, Methos turned his attention to the black pieces on the board. Once, he thought, I would have aligned myself on this side of the board unquestioningly. The white queen and all her soldiers would have been my enemies. "And now?" Methos chuckled as he muttered to himself again; this was turning into a habit. "Wonder if I could find a set in shades of grey?" 

********************************************* 

Kronos lifted a short sword from the table before him. It had seen hard use over the years. He had often thought of having another forged, but returned to this one time and again. It, like his brothers Caspian and Silas, was a faithful companion, willing to be used whenever necessary. Kronos smiled as he thought of the coming reunion of the Horsemen. He had long desired such an occasion, and it was ironic that the most reluctant of his brothers would be responsible for it. 

Passing a whet stone slowly over the length of the blade, Kronos questioned his ready acceptance of Methos' claim to have knowledge of the other Horsemen's whereabouts. If it was, in fact, a ploy to buy time, the punishment meted out would be harsh. Both Caspian and Silas had vital roles to play in the coming contest, roles that would guarantee Kronos' victory. Testing the edge of the gladius with his thumb, Kronos grunted his satisfaction and put it aside. 

With dagger and gladius attended to, Kronos turned his attention to his broadsword. Unlike the others, it had not been forged for him specifically; rather, he had claimed it as his prize after besting another immortal. Kronos' grin was feral as he recalled the overconfident man who had relied on his greater size to defeat his opponents. The years of sparring with Silas had paid off, and Kronos had easily taken the man's head. That man had underestimated the fierce Horseman, and had paid the ultimate price. 

Taking a chamois cloth and sword oil in hand, Kronos mulled over the options left open to Methos. He was counting on his brother to draw Duncan MacLeod into their contest. His initial surprise at hearing Methos suggest a contest that involved others had been quickly supplanted by the desire to include MacLeod in the wager. Seeing his brother in the company of a man who had thwarted him before angered Kronos, and he longed for the chance to destroy MacLeod and the bond he so obviously shared with Methos. Any other teammate would be of secondary importance, he concluded. Still, Kronos meant to keep someone close to Methos; knowledge was power. 

Setting the broadsword down carefully, Kronos sat quietly and watched his breath plume in the cool room. His weapons were as ready as he could make them. His mind was fully engaged by a challenging opponent in what promised to be a test of both strength and skill. A slow smile spread across his face, pulling at his scar and bringing a dangerous glint to his eyes. "Soon brother," he whispered his promise, "soon." 

********************************************* 

At the same time, both men rose and prepared for sleep to claim them. They had a meeting the next day, one that would pit them each against a worthy adversary. The stakes were high in this contest, and neither wished to lose the advantage.


	6. Chapter Six

**_Chapter Six _**

Cassandra stood at the window, staring at the past. She had been up for some time, but had never really been asleep anyway. There was no time or energy for sleep. Not anymore. 

She felt a gentle hand on her arm, turning her. Duncan's caring eyes offered her what he held in his other hand – a cup of hot tea. She started to turn it down, but changed her mind. He could not make things better for her, but why deny him the comfort of trying? 

She had decided not to blame him for the decision he'd made last night. Cassandra understood the young Scot's somewhat simplistic approach to life; envied it, truth be told. Would that things were truly the way he liked to see them: evil = enemy, friend = good. He had spoken last night of shades of gray, but she knew that it was just an intellectual concept to him, not something he'd faced head-on and really understood on a deep emotional level. 

With a pang of regret, she realized that by the time this was all done, if he still lived, he'd have more than a passing familiarity with the notion. She briefly mourned in advance the impending loss of his remaining form of innocence. 

Duncan continued to hover nearby, ready to offer assistance, but obviously without a clue as to what kind he could give. Cassandra gripped his arm in gratitude, then turned to lean against his strength as his arm lifted to grant her entry into his embrace. 

"It'll be all right," he said softly. 

The bitter laugh escaped before she could stop it. "Well, it will be resolved somehow, that much is certain." 

Perhaps because he could do nothing to alleviate the pain he could hear, Duncan put his other arm around her and rested his head against hers. She knew he was becoming increasingly troubled about Methos – perhaps was not even aware of that yet – and she wished she could spare him the pain of learning the truth about what he thought was a close friend. 

The thought of Duncan and Methos associating as friends was so disquieting, so akin to a betrayal, however unwitting, that she pulled away from the younger immortal abruptly. His face clearly questioned what he'd done to offend her, but she had no internal resources available at the moment to reassure or comfort him. There was only the low hum of chronic anger, and humiliation, and hate. 

She crossed to the sofa and sat at the end, pulling her legs up and under her. He followed but, responding to the nonverbal cue, sat at the far end from her. It was a long time before he dared to break the silence. 

"Cassandra, I want you to know that whatever you went through… whatever… _happened_… Well, you can talk to me about anything." In his clumsy way, she knew he was offering his shoulder to cry on, but he probably wasn't even conscious of his second agenda: to discover exactly what his "friend" might be capable of. 

Some part of Duncan was still clinging to the hope that Methos had simply "fallen in with the wrong crowd" and had only been present during the atrocities, not a full-fledged participant; certainly not an instigator. He was like a child who, upon learning that his father had committed murder, sought to determine that it was really an accident, or self-defense, or a big misunderstanding. 

Perhaps, Cassandra decided, it was time for Duncan to grow up. 

Taking a deep breath, she began. 

"That first night with Methos was bad. I was his new toy, one that had to be explored, prodded, tested, to find out what made me tick. It was a night of great discovery, for both of us. He learned about what frightened me, angered me, what pained me the most; what he could do to provoke me into greater resistance or deeper timidity; what I would do to avoid additional punishment." She turned her head, looking Duncan in the eye. "_I_ learned what it was like to live in Hell." 

She watched his face, saw the resistance. No, he was thinking, the Methos I know would not do such things. My friend could not be capable of that. There must be some explanation, some sort of mistake… 

"That first night was bad," she repeated, "but the nights that followed were worse. Because he was armed with the knowledge he'd gained about me, and his next step was to use it to systematically break down my defenses, to strip me down to the bare essentials. How many slaps were needed to make me flinch at the sudden movement of his hand? How many stabbings to the heart would it take to make me submit instantly just at the sight of a knife?" 

Duncan shifted on the sofa, his emotional resistance still whirling in his dark eyes. She pressed on. 

"And it wasn't simply torture for the pleasure of causing pain, you understand. There was no passion in it for him, at least not after that first night; it was all to his purpose, to make me ready to be remade as his perfect slave. First you have to knead and manipulate the lump of clay, you know, make it pliant, before you can mold it to your chosen form. He was simply carrying out a well-thought out method of retraining." 

She saw in the Scot's eyes a flickering – perhaps recognizing a trait of his "friend?" 

"But even his early cruelty was easier to bear than what he inflicted on me later. As my 'retraining' progressed, and succeeded, I began to… look forward to our time together. The days were long and dull and filled with labor. At least at night… I had contact with someone, even if it was someone who had begun as a tormenter. He began to show small kindnesses, or what passed for kindnesses under those circumstances. When punishment is the standard, not being punished can be seen as kindness. 

"Anyway, it began to seem as though he… cared. About me. He seemed to ignore the other women the Horsemen kept, opting for me over the rest. Eventually, I spent all my time in his tent, caring for his things, preparing for his arrival at the end of a long, hard day. I began to feel," she managed a cynical smile, "as though I was his woman and not merely his slave, though certainly there was never any balance of power between us. He was simply my life, my day and my night, and the only thing I had to look forward to other than hard labor and arbitrary cruelty from the other Horsemen. He was, at least, preferable to that sadist Caspian or the power-mad Kronos. Or at least, I came to believe that he was." 

Duncan would no longer make eye contact with her, staring across the room, motionless except for the vigorous working of his jaw muscle. His body was rigid; one hand gripped the arm of the sofa such that his knuckles stood out white on his tanned skin. 

"Do you know, Duncan, what it feels like to believe you are cared for, and then be tossed aside like a broken jug or a worn-out saddle?" His eyes lowered, but still he would not turn his face to her. "Well, I found out, in the most heartless possible way. 

"I had always noticed Kronos watching us together, could see him seething as Methos' preference became more and more noticeable. Kronos liked to control everything, including the private lives of his brothers. An allegiance formed with _anyone_ outside that circle was a threat to his power. 

"The night finally came when he could no longer tolerate the situation. Methos had begun to treat me almost tenderly. I even dared to think that he loved me!" She gave another bitter laugh. "What a fool I was, though I had no objective way to gauge such things. If someone stops beating and torturing you and you gradually stop believing that each day might be your last on earth, then maybe that is love, in your world. 

"Anyway, the Horsemen had just returned from a long ride and I had everything ready for Methos, just the way he liked things. Cool wine, fresh fruit, myself made as pleasing to look at as possible. He noticed these things, and indicated his approval. It meant the world to me as he stroked my cheek and really seemed to look into my eyes. In his, I thought I saw a glimmer of a man unlike the one who had taken me by force and cold-heartedly destroyed and transformed me. 

"Then, Kronos barged into the tent and announced that since they shared _everything,_ he assumed that Methos was ready to share _me._ Methos stood and faced him, and I believed with all my heart that he would tell Kronos 'no, go to hell, she is mine and mine alone.'" With an ironic smirk, Cassandra looked at Duncan, who this time returned her gaze. "Can you imagine someone in my situation actually believing  
that? Or that it even seemed like something to hope for?" She shook her head, still smirking, as though laughing at some foible of innocent girlhood. 

"But he didn't say that to Kronos," Duncan prompted. She heard not dread in his voice, but resignation. He knew how the story ended, but she wouldn't spare him the telling. 

"No, he didn't. He faced Kronos for a brief moment, then stepped aside without so much as a glance in my direction and let Kronos drag me, screaming, from his tent. He wouldn't even meet my gaze as I was taken away. He just listened to me beg for his help and did nothing." She stood, still holding the untouched tea, and took a couple of steps away from the sofa. 

"That was the final straw for me, that perverse betrayal. I realized that I had nothing left to lose; to remain in that situation was a living death. How much worse could physical death possibly be? I got a lucky opportunity to stab Kronos – not realizing that it would only temporarily kill him – and fled the camp to the desert and eventual freedom." 

They were silent for a long time. When Cassandra turned to look at him, she saw a different Duncan MacLeod than the one who'd started this conversation. He looked at once enhanced and diminished, and grimly resolute. 

When he met her eyes, she softened a little. In his, she saw the pain of unwelcome knowledge, of empathy for the trials of one friend, and the anguish of betrayal by another. Gone was some of the simplicity that had endowed his eyes with much of their lively glint that always thrilled her. She had one more twinge of guilt for robbing him of the comfort of his illusion; this she ruthlessly suppressed. The time for clear-sighted understanding was upon him, upon them both. 

Setting down the tea cup, Cassandra returned to the sofa, this time sitting next to him and wrapping him in an embrace meant to comfort. He submitted, putting one hand on her arm, but his body remained rigid and tense. It occurred to her that this story had altered not just Duncan's relationship with Methos but the one he had with her as well. The message was so offensive that it had irreversibly contaminated his rapport with the messenger. Her sense of loss was great, but balanced by the belief that she'd done what had to be done. 

We all have to grow up sometime, she thought. 

Duncan pulled free from her and rose to go stand at the window, staring at the future.


	7. Chapter Seven

**_Chapter Seven _**

"You came back." Kronos sounded surprised and smugly confident at the same time. The net effect on Methos' stretched nerves was less grating than it would have been the day before. A good night's sleep had gone a long way to rebuilding his emotional defences. Truly, Kronos' gleeful sarcasm was the least of his worries right now. 

"Yes, well, I'd rather not have to keep looking over my shoulder for you for the next thousand years." Methos slouched further into the power station as he returned the opening salvo. 

"My dear brother, you won't have to look far to find me, I'll be right beside you, every step of the way." With that statement, Kronos finally turned to face Methos fully, enjoying the sullen look that graced his brother's mobile face. Crossing his arms over his chest, Kronos leaned his hips against the table behind him and crossed his booted feet. "Once I win this wager, I plan to keep you near me always." 

Methos quickly repressed the shudder that thoughts of Kronos' nearness produced. He asked himself, once again, why he had agreed to meet on the Horseman's ground? They could just as easily have finalized details of the contest elsewhere. Shaking his head, Methos realized just how far off his game he had been the night before. Good thing I've got it together now, he thought. 

"Right, always … whatever." Methos brushed Kronos' words away with a gesture of one long-fingered hand. Stopping well outside Kronos' reach, Methos shoved his hands in his jeans pocket, looking the picture of relaxation. "Let's get this over with, shall we? The less time I spend here, the better." 

"What's wrong, brother, does my mere presence taint the air you breathe?" Kronos moved slowly away from the table as he spoke and began to prowl the room like a panther. "Afraid your new _friends_ might see us together? Wouldn't want to be seen with one of the _bad_ guys?" 

Methos was doing his best to maintain his façade of disinterest as Kronos circled the room. He clenched his jaw to resist turning his head to track the movement, but couldn't help stiffening when his adversary moved directly behind him. So intent was he, that he almost didn't notice Kronos' stealthy approach. 

"Well, brother?" Kronos breathed in Methos' ear. "Cat got your tongue?" He seemed disappointed when Methos did not startle at his closeness, but grinned slyly as he felt his brother's back muscles tense. 

Methos counted mentally to five before moving smoothly away from Kronos. "If you're done playing? Good." Spinning, he pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. "Here are the locations of Silas and Caspian, as promised. It took some work, but I tracked them down." 

Kronos moved sinuously into Methos' personal space again. "So, you _weren't_ trying to buy time last night. I am somewhat disappointed in you brother, I expected more obstacles." Kronos tapped the folded paper thoughtfully against his lips. "You have given me much more information than you usually do. Perhaps you don't want to win? Hmm?" 

"You might want to read that before you gloat," Methos said dryly, struggling not to pull away from the leather-jacketed menace in front of him. He watched closely as Kronos read the paper, noting the darkening gaze and the muscle that twitched next to the scar as the truth sank in. 

"You have given me nothing! What use are they on the other side of the world?" Kronos stalked away from Methos as he yelled. Turning on his heel, he faced Methos once more. "What trickery is this?" The quiet tone seemed more threatening than the previous shouting, and Methos swallowed. 

"No trick. I said I would give you their locations, I never claimed they lived down the street." The drawling sound of his own voice comforted Methos. "I'm willing to … delay our contest to give you time to fetch your team." By the end of the sentence, Methos sounded so bored with the whole exchange he almost convinced himself. Unconsciously, he straightened and pulled his hands out of his pockets. 

"One week, Kronos. I'll give you one week to gather the other Horsemen. Eight days from now we meet at a facility of my choice to settle our wager. If you do not appear at the appointed place and time, I shall assume that you forfeit. I do believe that concludes our discussion for today, so, if you'll excuse me, I have things to do." Methos began to walk calmly toward the door, but was stopped halfway there by Kronos' laughter. 

"Now that is the Methos I remember, always plotting, trying to gain the advantage. Using word games to claim victory. And you say you have changed." Kronos laughed harshly once more. 

"If I were still the person I was then, I would arrange to have you killed while you fetched the others. You should be thankful I've changed, it's increased your life expectancy." Methos' hands clenched as he tried to ignore the fact that just such a plan had occurred to him that morning. Only the inherent difficulties involved in finding headhunters on such short notice had stopped him from pursuing the plan further. 

"Methos, only you would consider getting soft and lazy a change for the better." Kronos continued to chuckle. "It was a woman, wasn't it? Silly question, its always a woman with you. First Cassandra, now that little chit … What was her name, Alexa?" Kronos narrowed his eyes as he spoke, watching for the reaction that was sure to come. 

"Don't you EVER speak that name again!" Methos exploded into action, crossing the floor to grab Kronos by the lapels of his jacket. "I don't know who told you about that, but you are never to mention her to me again, do you understand?" He gave Kronos a shake for emphasis. 

"No one 'told me' about her, I saw her for myself." The self-satisfaction in Kronos' tone was evident, and it shook Methos. Clearly, there was more to come. "Did you think I found you by accident brother? I first saw you in Greece, on the arm of a beautiful young mortal. I have tracked you since then. I thought of killing her when you left her on Santorini, but one of my employees discovered she was already dying. I had time," he finished smugly, "so I decided to wait." 

Kronos never saw the blow coming. One minute, Methos had him by the jacket, the next he was laying on the floor, gingerly touching his sore jaw. "Well," he complained, "that was surprising." 

"Get up you bastard, I'm not done yet." Methos stood above him, fists clenched, pupils dilated, breathing heavily. As Kronos regained his feet, Methos lashed out again. Prepared this time, Kronos ducked the first punch. Setting his feet, he began to dodge. Perhaps he could use this to his advantage somehow. 

Methos had thrown the first blow in rage. The same could be said for the second and the third, but by the time Kronos had dodged the fourth blow, Methos' calculating mind had settled somewhat. He quickly controlled his breathing and began to plan his attack. 

Feinting with his left hand, Methos landed an open-handed blow to the side of Kronos' head. While that had his opponent distracted, he followed through with a sharp rap to the solar plexus. Breathing deeply, he deflected the kick Kronos levelled at his ribs, and spinning with the force of the kick, he drove his left elbow into the back of Kronos' head. He caught the hand that lashed out at him, snapping two fingers quickly. 

At the sound of the breaking bones, Methos felt a surge of joy sing through his blood. As Kronos attempted to pull his injured hand back, Methos drove two fingers into the pressure point at the shoulder joint. Kronos' scream brought a small grin to Methos' face. Dropping the arm, he stepped back and drove a kick through Kronos' kneecap. The grin widened and his breathing deepened even more. 

Kronos felt his knee dislocate, and crumpled to the ground, cradling his broken fingers. They were already healing, but the knee would take a little longer. Methos circled him like a bird of prey, deciding where to next rend flesh from bone. Before Kronos could fully react, a hand had snapped out, rocking his head back with the force of the blow. Blood poured from his broken nose as Methos hovered over him, right hand pulled back with fingers stiffened, ready to drive the killing blow into the larynx. 

During the frozen moment, Kronos noted the dilated pupils, the flared nostrils, and the heaving chest of his opponent. This, he thought triumphantly, was the Methos he knew, the cold killer who dismantled his opponents to enjoy their pain. His own heart rate, already responding to the fight and the pain, increased even more. 

"Do it," he urged. "Kill me brother, and when I revive, we will celebrate the reunion of the Horsemen." 

As the words left his mouth, Kronos knew he had spoken too soon. Panic flared briefly in the eyes above his before they were shuttered. Methos lowered his raised hand, and flexed his fingers. Stepping away and searching blindly for the door, he looked momentarily lost. Beginning toward the exit he had finally located, Methos heard Kronos speak behind him, pitch rising as Methos continued to walk away. 

"Leave brother, for now. But remember that I was correct. You have not changed as much as you think. Death hovers at your shoulder now. He will ride again." 


	8. Chapter Eight

**_Chapter Eight _**

Duncan rose early the next day. Sleep had been hard to come by, so an early exit from bed was easily accomplished. Leaving his hair down and his shirt off, he drank a little orange juice before heading quietly down to the dojo. 

Once there, he did some light stretching and warming up, preparing his mind and body for the real exercise he was there to do. Throughout this warm-up time, his mind was carefully blank, busy with white noise, concentrating only on the feeling, the motion, the proper use of each muscle group. 

Satisfied that he was ready, he lifted the katana and began his kata. 

The forms were more than automatic; they were a part of him, a part of who he was and how he was. They not only required no thought to perform, they actually made clearer thought possible, which was why he so often turned to them when he was deeply troubled. Usually he would find better focus doing kata without the sword, but today he felt the need to swing the steel as he thought. 

Moving, stepping, flexing silently in the deserted dojo – the kata took on a life all their own, liberating his mind from his body, and the journey began. 

Well, it tried to begin. Every journey begins with a single step, but not when both feet are glued to the floor. The matters he was there to deal with seemed mired in mud, difficult to lift to the surface. There were obstacles in the way, impediments to the consideration he needed so desperately to do. Doubly frustrating was the knowledge that he had certainly planted those obstacles himself. 

Becoming aware that his motions had grown tenser and less controlled, Duncan concentrated on relaxing his muscles and slowing his breathing. When he felt the forms taking over again, he returned to the problem with a different approach. 

He should begin by identifying what he was feeling. Allowing his mind to bathe in the slow, steady river of physical movement, he waited for the first emotion to swim toward his consciousness. It came fast and hard and with little warning, and he spent some more energy slowing the slashing of the sword and relaxing his grip on the hilt, never halting the smooth rhythm of the kata. 

Anger, then, would seem to be the dominant emotion. Little point in questioning himself about the object of that anger. 

The overt thought of Methos triggered another spate of agitation, which he controlled this time with less effort. Hell, yes, he was angry with the old immortal. His sense of betrayal was almost overwhelming. Technically, he knew that Methos had never _lied_ to him about this part of his past, but it was difficult to justify leaving something of this magnitude unspoken. 

True, it was not the way of the world's oldest immortal to spontaneously share information about his past. But the Highlander couldn't accept that his "friend" had been harboring a secret so horrendous and never even given clues, to perhaps prepare Duncan for the day when he was ready to share this part of his past. This led naturally to the possibility that Methos had planned never to confide this particular secret; certainly he would not have done so now, were his back not against the wall. It was hard to accept that Methos wouldn't have trusted him with this knowledge, in the face of the bond that the two of them shared. Or that Duncan had thought they shared. 

This last thought brought another rush of anger and, forcing himself to remain disciplined and focused physically, he was able to identify the source: If he had been so misled by Methos as to be completely unaware of the old man's true capacity for violence and mayhem, how could Duncan know what elements of their friendship were real and what parts were simply vapor, convenient fictional constructs that Methos had erected to crowd the landscape of his character and avoid exposure? Perhaps their very friendship was a cover, a façade of respectability behind which to hide an unspeakable period in his life. 

The one undeniable truth of the situation was that he had made a friend, a friend who'd become important to him, and that friend had now turned out have once been a monster. 

He winced, not at the line of thought but because he had nicked his arm. Astonished, he stared at the cut – more than a nick, after all – and watched blood ooze out and trickle along his arm and to the floor. When had an errant blade last injured him during kata? 

Grabbing a white towel from a shelf, he mopped up the blood from the floor, his sword, and his now-healed arm, then resumed his kata. Soon his thoughts returned to his previous perception of Methos as a non-violent, even rather harmless friend. How could Duncan trust his own judgment about anyone now, when it had been proven so egregiously unreliable? 

The whisper of the katana as it glided through the early morning darkness in the dojo belied its lethal potential should anything more substantial wander into its path. 

Yes, Duncan acknowledged, it was perhaps the discovery of his own faulty appraisal of Methos that cut him most deeply. To survive as an immortal who strives to stay out of the Game, one must learn to assess other immortals – their desires, their needs, their ambitions and true intentions – thoroughly and accurately. While Duncan had never claimed to know exactly what made Methos tick, he had until now been pretty sure that power, cruelty, and killing were things he not only didn't crave, but actively shunned. 

To learn now that the man had been a part of the most vicious and reviled instruments of death and destruction the ancient world had ever known was to learn that Duncan's ability to judge people was considerably less dependable than he had believed it to be. 

Smoothly, he continued his sinuous, almost hypnotic exercises, severing imaginary ties with his ever-fluid sword. 

Pictures filled his mind now, imagined versions of the slaughtering of innocent villagers and families, furnished with some details by Cassandra's impassioned account of the Horsemen raiding her desert camp. But these pictures were soon displaced by his own real memories of the Texas homesteaders butchered by the man he had then known as Melvin Koren. He well remembered the savagery displayed by "Koren" and his gang of run-of-the-mill hoodlums. It wasn't much of a stretch to mentally amplify the carnage by a factor of four. 

Imagining Methos in the company of such people had at first been painful, something he recoiled from. Now it activated within him a depth of rage he hadn't realized he possessed. Methos had been one of the four, just like Kronos. Duncan no longer had trouble seeing the charming, boyish face of his "friend" and placing it within the massacre scene he imagined from Cassandra's description – only now, the ready, sly, always ironic grin was lent a sinister glow by the grisly context. 

Duncan's katana sliced again and again into the growing morning light, whispering of wrongs to be righted and pain avenged. 

His exercise was nearly complete. Soon, Methos would be here to discuss the details of the contest. 


	9. Chapter Nine

**_Chapter Nine _**

Cassandra entered the elevator and pulled down the sliding gate. She was nervous, unsettled, both dreading what was to come and itching to get it over with. Such conflicting feelings were becoming the norm for her, and she didn't appreciate it. 

As the elevator took its time traveling downward, unphased by human impatience or anxiety, she reached under her coat to draw sure comfort from the cold certainty of steel in her hand. This time, however, it only served to heighten the unrest, and she reluctantly pulled her hand away. 

At long last, the elevator reached the bottom and she hurried out as though afraid she might have missed something. In fact, the dojo was deserted save for Duncan, methodically doing sword kata. She paused to watch him for a moment, admiring not just his physical beauty but his focus and sense of purpose. 

His dark hair was loose and danced around wildly with his movements. Shirtless, his muscles were clearly defined and could be seen hard at work as he executed each segment of the forms with long-mastered precision. Judging by the gleaming sweat, he had been at this for a good while already this morning. 

It occurred to Cassandra that she was witnessing Duncan's elemental being now. He had been bred a warrior centuries before, and though he had been influenced over time by mentors and experience to embrace a preference for peace, at his core he still longed for the simplicity of determining where Justice resides in a conflict and fighting for it with every last ounce of his strength and passion. 

Perhaps, she thought, that was the true source of the brooding that had so much become the Scot's hallmark; not the balancing act between his code of honor and the non-ideal realities of life, but the conflict between his intellectual desire for a non-violent life and the fundamental ingrained need for the physical conquest of evil. 

He looked in her direction, briefly, not halting his exercise. "Morning." 

"Good morning," she answered. 

"Sleep well?" 

"No." 

He nodded, still continuing his workout. She walked toward a bench but found herself too antsy to sit down. She knelt to pick up the bloodied towel, holding it up toward him, her face a question mark. 

"Cut myself," he said shortly. 

"With your sword?" 

"No, with my nail file." 

She ignored the sarcasm, lost in concern. Duncan losing control of his sword while practicing forms was not something to take lightly. He must be as unsettled as she. 

"Maybe you should take a break," she suggested. She wanted him to stop anyway. 

"I'm fine. A minor cut, already gone." 

Irritated by his dismissive tone, Cassandra said, "It won't help, you know. All this practicing." 

"Won't help what?" 

"It won't change the facts." 

Now Duncan did stop, wiping sweat-soaked hair from his forehead, his expression challenging. "And what facts are those, Cassandra?" 

"That you have chosen the wrong man as a friend. That you have agreed to help him with a plan you haven't even heard yet. That you are risking your life on the word of a liar who always has a hidden agenda and whose only priority is surviving." 

"You forgot one fact: I gave him my word." 

She snorted. "Oh, yes, your celebrated honor. It's what makes you the perfect victim for someone who lives by a strict code of self-interest." 

"I'm nobody's victim." His voice was calm, but the anger was visible in his face. "And I would prefer dying by my own code to living in the solace of hate." 

Cassandra stiffened. "And just what is that supposed to mean?" 

"Let me ask you something, Cassandra. For two thousand years, you've lived with the anger, the humiliation, the betrayal of your trust by Methos. Letting your resentment build and build, to the point where your need for revenge is stronger than your desire to survive. So, when I found you two days ago, why weren't you hunting _Methos_? Why is it Kronos whose trail you were on?" 

It was a question she hadn't anticipated. "I – I didn't know Methos was still alive. All I knew about was Kronos." 

"Yeah, but you said yourself that survival was job one for Methos. You had to figure that if Kronos had endured the millennia, there was a good chance Methos had, too." 

"Maybe, but I didn't know where to look. I had a lead on Kronos, so I went with it." 

Duncan shook his head. "When you talk about the Horsemen, I see your pain and grief over the villagers, your anger at being captured and enslaved. But when you talk about Methos, I see naked fury in your eyes. And when you were together the other night..." He shook his head again at the memory, then closed the distance between them, pinning her in place with his steady gaze. "All that anger, all that hate, all directed toward him. Why wouldn't you want to search out that man first and make him pay?" 

"What does it matter who I chose to hunt first?" Cassandra felt an irrational surge of resentment at the questioning. "I would have found Methos eventually." 

"Maybe. Then again, maybe you're not being completely honest with yourself about your motivations. Finding Methos would have forced you to do that. Maybe you've just grown too comfortable with the rage to risk giving it up." 

They stood a few feet apart, glaring into one another's faces, when they felt the buzz indicating the arrival of another immortal. Knowing who it would be, they scarcely budged, even when Methos' voice rang out, "Good morning, team." 

***************************  
Methos slowed his stride as he surveyed the unexpectedly confrontational tableau before him. Cassandra and MacLeod looked almost ready to square off and trade punches. Not a good start for Team Methos. 

Watching as the two of them stopped glaring and turned their separate ways, Cassandra walking to the other side of the dojo with arms folded, he could see that whatever they'd been arguing about was far from resolved, and would likely contaminate their attitudes for the bulk of this meeting. Par for this course, he reflected sourly. Could nothing go right in this whole bloody mess? The last thing he needed was more angst in the mix. 

Pondering his options for a non-incendiary opening remark, Methos noted absently that MacLeod appeared to have just finished a substantial workout. Less absently, he noted that the Highlander still held his sword with a grip that meant business. As Duncan turned a less-than-friendly glower his way, Methos' eyes fell upon the bloody towel Cassandra had left on the bench. 

This meeting's prospects just kept getting better and better. 

He had anticipated a cool, even frosty reception from his friend, not this burning hostility that seemed directed toward both himself and Cassandra. It appeared Methos' game plan for running this informational meeting would require some last-minute tweaking. He thought once more of the risks of improvisation, then forced himself to make a start. 

"Well, I met with Kronos yesterday and sealed the deal. He has seven days to collect two teammates; any later, and he forfeits." 

"He'll be there. Any indication of who he's going to get?" The question was innocent, but Duncan's tone was demanding. 

"It's immaterial," replied Methos. "All that matters is that we are properly prepared." 

"This might be a good time to give us some details about the contest, then," Duncan said, facing Methos squarely, his arms folded, the katana still in his hand. Cassandra drifted toward them, also with her arms folded. They presented themselves not exactly as a united front, but as two enemies facing an enemy they had in common. 

"That is the point of this meeting," the common enemy said lightly. And he told them exactly what the contest would involve. 

Ignoring Cassandra's rolling eyes and Duncan's head-shaking, he continued. "I'm on my way after this to finalize the rental of the facility. Kronos doesn't know which one I've chosen, so tampering won't be an issue. And I'm paying extra for the installation of metal detectors and additional supervision of the game, to ensure everyone's safety." 

"I can just imagine Kronos' reaction to the choice of such a childish activity," Cassandra muttered, hinting at her own displeasure. 

"I think I mentioned before that our contests were usually somewhat juvenile in nature." 

"You also said they were non-combative," Duncan growled pointedly. 

"Yes, but I knew that Kronos would require something a little more confrontational – it wouldn't hold his interest otherwise. That's why I chose something that is completely non-contact and safe." 

"Safe!" Cassandra snickered. "What a word. There's nothing safe about any of this." 

"You opted yourself into it," Methos reminded her, fighting to maintain his patience. 

"Can we stick to the point of this meeting?" Duncan demanded. The old immortal had rarely seen the Scot so agitated, and moved almost unconsciously out of range of his sword. 

"Sure thing," he said, trying once again to project a light mood. He motioned them into the office, and Duncan stalked along behind him, glowing with hostility. Cassandra reluctantly brought up the rear. 

Spreading a large paper out on the desk, Methos began. "This is a blueprint of the playing field. For our purposes, there will be two bases – one for us, one for them. Defense of the base is the top priority; once it has been disabled three times, the game is over." 

He glanced at Duncan and saw him peering fiercely at the drawing. Good, he thought. Keep channeling all that belligerence into the contest and there will be no need to watch my head. At least, where MacLeod is concerned. He continued. 

"All around the room, there are obstacles and shelters, places to hide, to use for ambushes. The light is low and the air will be murky, and there may be a lot of noise that will cover sounds made by both teams, making it easier to sneak up on your opponent." 

"And for your opponent to sneak up on you," Cassandra observed sharply. 

"That too," he agreed. "The terrain is widely varied, with one of the bases being on slightly higher ground. The distribution of the bases will be determined by a coin toss right before the contest." He sat on the edge of the desk, arms loosely folded, giving a relaxed appearance. "Any questions?" 

Duncan moved abruptly, pacing the office like a caged beast. Methos deliberately didn't watch him but could tell each time he got closer by the radiating heat of his antagonism. One of his mantras began running itself automatically in the background of his consciousness. 

Cassandra leaned close to him. "I have a question. What _aren't_ you telling us about this contest?" 

She was too close, trampling his personal space all to hell. After yesterday's incident with Kronos, he was a little hypersensitive, and he edged away before he realized he was doing it. 

"I suppose there are a great many little things I've left out," he said, still aiming for an airy tone. "What specifically would you like to know?" 

She studied his face for what seemed like eons. "I know you're keeping secrets, Methos." Her voice was nearly a whisper in his ear. She had leaned in even closer, and he felt a rising panic at the intrusion. Suddenly his face felt warm, and he wondered mindlessly whether that meant it had reddened or paled. 

He had an overwhelming urge to shove her away, but the memory of their physical confrontation two nights ago helped to stay that reflex. That, and the fact that the Marching MacLeod had stopped pacing and was standing directly beside him – between himself and the doorway. 

Methos took a breath and forced an ironic smile. "I have many secrets, Cassandra. But I assure you that I've given you all the information needed to survive this contest." He pulled from his jacket a brochure from the facility he was renting, placed it on the desk, and used one of Duncan's pens to scribble on it. "Here is the date and time the contest is to start. I will come by here 90 minutes earlier to pick you both up. I think it's prudent for us to arrive early and as a group." Pocketing the pen, he rose languidly from his perch on the desk. 

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some errands to run." He took a step toward the doorway, which Duncan was blocking. Briefly, they remained in this posture – Duncan with arms folded and still clutching the sword, Methos looking relaxed with his hands in his jacket pockets – before Duncan took a single step to one side. 

"I'll be in touch," Methos called as he walked out of the dojo. He waited until he was out on the sidewalk before taking a deep, slightly quaking breath. 

*****************************  
There was a moment of thunderous silence in the office, then Duncan turned on his heel and stalked through the doorway and toward the elevator. "I need a shower," he said. 

Cassandra watched him into the lift, then hurried out of the dojo in time to see Methos round the corner. As she stepped out to follow, she saw another man move away from the car he'd been leaning against and round the same corner, trying too hard to look casual. 

Secrets all around, she thought. 

She began to walk faster, keeping them both in sight. 


	10. Chapter Ten

**_Chapter Ten _**

Kronos leaned back in satisfaction, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Glancing to his right, he saw his brother Caspian, to his left, Silas. The smile twitched wider. All that was missing was a certain wily, old immortal, and he would be joining them soon enough. Kronos' smile turned into chuckles, and then an outright laugh. 

Silas joined his laughter willingly, comprehension not required for merriment. Caspian, however, merely slashed an evil grin at his brothers, his attention held more firmly by the visibly frightened flight attendant. Kronos was sure he could see his brother scenting the young woman's fear in the air. 

"Brother," he stated quietly, putting his hand on Caspian's arm, "you will have plenty of time to play later. I need your attention now." With one last leer at the pretty blonde, Caspian turned back to his brothers. 

"So, brother, are you finally going to tell us where we are going?" Silas' voice boomed throughout the empty first class section of the airplane. Kronos was once again thankful that he had purchased all the seats, ensuring privacy for their conversation. 

"Yes," hissed Caspian. "Why the need for secrecy? Is there something you don't want us to know?" 

"Do you question me, Caspian?" The note of command in Kronos' voice was unmistakable. The habits of one thousand years could be forgotten, but not broken. Caspian immediately came to heel. 

"Forgive me brother. I am certain you had a reason for releasing me from that hellhole of a hospital. But I was growing rather fond of the food." A dreamy look crossed Caspian's face as he remembered licking blood off the doctor's face as he lay dying. 

Throwing a look of disgust at Caspian, Silas broke in with another question. 

"Where is Methos? Does he not ride with us? You said we ride, Kronos. We cannot ride without Methos." 

Hearing Caspian snicker, Kronos raised his hand to forestall any comments; comments that were sure to incite anger in their large companion. He did not wish to mediate their bickering during the long flight. 

"I will answer all your questions now. The timing has been … problematic to this point. I had only a week to retrieve you both. Explanations had to wait. Your patience will be rewarded." The last was said with a sly grin that heartened both of the former Horsemen. That grin always presaged destruction in the past. 

"Now, where to begin? Perhaps with a dark street …" Kronos quickly brought Caspian and Silas up to date on the details of his encounter with Methos in Seacouver. He glossed over Methos' reluctance to rejoin his brothers, and emphasized the importance of the contest. Nothing could be allowed to stand in the way of winning the contest. 

"So, it was Methos' idea to have a contest?" Silas seemed confused by this. 

"Yes, brother." Kronos felt no need to confuse the large man by explaining that Methos had the offered the contest as a way to avoid dying or rejoining their brotherhood. 

"But the contests were for Caspian and me. You and Methos never – And we never had teams before - And we – 

"Shut up!" Caspian snapped. "It is simple. There is a contest … we will win. Just as I always did in the past." 

"You did not always win!" Silas defended himself. "I remember the time we had to blow feathers, you lost. Methos said I had great lungs. And the time we had to hold a lion carcass overhead. I lifted the carcass off you when you fell." As Silas paused to draw breath, Caspian surged into the gap. 

"What of the race? Do you remember the race? Your lungs did you no good that day. Ten times around the camp it was, I lapped you by the fifth circuit. You died in the dust like a dog." Caspian's eyes filled with glee as he recalled his prize from that contest, a tender little morsel of a slave girl. He wondered again how the flight attendant would taste. 

Kronos felt like he was caught in the middle of a tennis match forever frozen at match point. Neither of his two brothers had changed, either in their animosity towards one another, or in their disregard of others around them. Although first class was empty, Kronos could not allow the argument to escalate any further. 

"Enough!" he roared. The flight attendant, who had been trying to inch even further away from the frightening passengers, jumped and fled first class, heading for the safety of tourist. 

"Much though your bickering amuses me, we have more important things to discuss." Kronos sounded anything but amused. "Methos has tried to stack the deck in his favour by sending me off to fetch you. By the time this flight lands, we will have only twenty-four hours before the contest is slated to begin." 

"But brother," Caspian interrupted, "he will have set traps for us. He has the advantage. He _is_ the planner, the schemer." Caspian's dislike for Methos shone through the words he spoke. 

"You underestimate me brother, just as Methos has." Kronos' voice was once again silky, underscored by a subtle sense of violence barely held in check. "I know exactly what Methos has done to prepare for this contest. I know where it is to be held. I know what safeguards he has put in place. I know just how much it cost me to override those safeguards. Good help is hard to find," he noted, "but I seem to have found it." 

"So, you intend to beat him at his own game?" Caspian sounded thrilled at the prospect of seeing Methos humbled. 

"But we won't hurt him, will we?" Silas was confused and concerned. "You and Methos always said we never raise a blade to each other in anger." 

"Of course not brother." Kronos could afford a little time to soothe Silas now. "I have never wished to _hurt_ Methos. I only want him back with our little family. He has lost his way over the years. Fallen in with a bad crowd." Kronos stifled a grin at the irony of that statement. 

Silas seemed satisfied at Kronos' explanation. "How do we help him, brother?" 

"Well, we have to eliminate the bad influences on him. My _employee_ has been unable to determine the identity of Methos' second teammate." Kronos almost ground his teeth as he admitted that. "We do, however, know that his first choice was Duncan MacLeod. If we want Methos back, we will have to eliminate Duncan MacLeod." 

Caspian and Silas nodded, leaning forward as Kronos unveiled his plan to destroy Methos' last hope.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**_Chapter Eleven _**

It was nearly over, one way or another. The contest was tomorrow, and things would soon come to an end. 

Duncan was sitting at his desk in the dojo, pretending to read but no longer sure what book he was holding. His mind could not leave the conflict that would take place tomorrow, nor the one that had been going on for a week already. 

He was angry and frustrated to know that a part of him still wanted to make excuses for Methos, to find a way to hold onto the friendship they'd developed. He had expended considerable energy the last few days smothering that impulse as much as possible. It was also infuriating that, even armed with the knowledge of his atrocious crimes, when Duncan looked at Methos, he still saw the friend, not the monster. Another intolerable betrayal of judgment. 

And yet he had pledged to fight – and it would come to a fight, none of them doubted that – at the side of this monster tomorrow, and he would honor that as he did all such pledges. He was, after all, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod – it's what he did. 

But the fight…ah, the fight itself was shrouded in questions, not the least of which was this: When the chips were down, who would be on whose side? The chasm between himself and Cassandra had steadily widened all week, her antipathy towards Methos seemed to intensify in random, wild bursts, and Methos…well, who ever really knew what those well-veiled eyes concealed? It was reasonable to assume that the World's Greatest Survivor would choose his ultimate course of action when the winds made their final prediction. 

The question was, what would Duncan do when that happened? It wasn't much of a question, really. Duncan had pretty well analyzed the likely outcomes of the situation, and in most cases, his appropriate response was pretty clear-cut. 

In most cases. 

Leaning back in his chair, Duncan put his head back, eyed the sword that hung on the wall, and sighed. 

************************  
Methos sat in his armchair by the light of the city much as he had that first night a week ago, holding a beer and with his Ivanhoe nearby. Unlike that night, however, he was reasonably relaxed and had no need to gulp the beer to drown surging memories and emotions. 

No need to use the chessboard to organize the situation this time, either. He had it all well in hand, and mind, now. The arrangements had all been made, both the obvious ones and those that were less above the board. The ducks were all lined up in their neat little row, and he was prepared for what lay ahead. 

Lifting the bottle to his lips, he mentally snickered at that assessment. No one knew better than he what could happen to the best-laid plans, nor understood better the depths of Kronos' deviousness. He had taken substantial precautions, certainly, but he was experienced enough and enough of a realist to acknowledge that there were always blind spots and unanticipated machinations. 

Yet for all that, he was feeling satisfied with his preparations. MacLeod was onboard, however torn, and would serve him in good stead despite being conflicted and feeling betrayed. After the contest, Methos himself would feel more equal to Kronos and able to approach him in battle. In fact, he was already more than halfway there… 

Quickly he took another drink and shooed away the uneasiness that was dragged along by that thought. His uneasiness grew when he realized how he had just misstated the situation. The point of the contest, he reminded himself, was to convince _Kronos_ of their equal footing, not himself. Strange that he would confuse that now. 

And then there was his ever-disturbing wild card… Thoughts of Cassandra rated another hoist of the bottle. She didn't belong in the scenario, but she was part of a package deal with MacLeod; one for the price of two. He started to ask what he'd done to deserve this, but thought better of it immediately. 

No matter. He'd managed with considerable effort to get a handle on his feelings where she was concerned and was confident that she wouldn't agitate him so badly the next time they met. It was all a matter of compartmentalization, and he'd been building strong boxes all week. 

He lifted the bottle again, and was mildly surprised to find it empty. He sat contemplating the empty bottle for some time more, hardly noticing the mantra running through his subconscious. 

************************  
In the loft, Cassandra was motionless in her nightgown, covered up to her chin, clutching her pillow as she lay on her side. She looked for all the world as though she were at rest. 

She was not. 

Her internal landscape was as dynamic as her exterior was still. The emotional activity was so high it exhausted her completely, and yet sleep – or even a moment of peace – would come nowhere near her. 

Cassandra had almost begun to wish she had never found Kronos, or at least had managed to challenge him before the trail had led here. Her purpose and course of action had been perfectly clear one week earlier; now… Never had she been so baffled by her own feelings, nor so unable to predict her own reactions. 

Her anger at Duncan, which she had nurtured and maintained all week, was, she knew, a cover. She didn't want to think about the issues he had raised, so she focused on her resentment, her outrage at the questions she told herself a true friend would not ask, had no right to voice. And it had worked, generally, allowing her to drown out those questions in the racket created by her ire. 

Except at night, when the ire died down despite efforts to stoke it, and the questions made themselves heard and were harder to ignore. 

Why hadn't she ever searched for Methos? He had been instrumental in defining and shaping her early life as an immortal, and most of her emotional makeup. She felt and resented his influence constantly to this very day. How many hours she'd spent wishing for his death, imagining it, planning it. Why, then had she never taken a single step toward making it a reality? 

Suspecting she might be able to answer this question if she stared it in the face with her emotional armor discarded, she cast it aside and thought about Methos himself, as he was now. She found it shocking that he had become so passive, so uninvolved, when she remembered him as assertive and dominant, second only to Kronos. When and how had this cold, ruthless killer made the transition to being a man who lived in shadow and would do nearly anything to avoid fighting? 

At this thought, her rage reared up with unexpected ardor. Although it was clear that her presence was upsetting to Methos, he nevertheless managed to maintain his poise and self-control – at least when she wasn't physically attacking him. This made her even more enraged, perhaps because her own emotions were so off-the-scale around him that it seemed impossible that he would not be similarly unbalanced around her. 

Suddenly, Cassandra came up on one elbow and pounded the pillow with her other fist, again and again and again, barely aware of the soft grunts that accompanied each blow. Breathing hard, her cheeks reddened, she turned over abruptly and flopped back down. 

Surely sleep would come soon.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**_Chapter Twelve _**

Sweeping, desert landscape…a humble nomad clan…the screaming, the fleeing…the buzz…horses' hooves, making too little sound for the intensity of force as they furiously pound the sand…fearsome riders burning with the white-hot lust for power and blood…the buzz…terror thick in the arid air…the buzz, _the buzz!_

Methos surfaced from the dream damp all over, convinced he was being restrained. In fact, he had simply become entangled in the sheet. Usually, he slept quietly, with little movement. 

Releasing himself from the bedding, he grabbed the Ivanhoe from beneath his pillow and silently crept toward the door of his apartment, the motion chilling his chest, arms, and shoulders as air caressed him through the sweat. He could feel the other immortal just on the other side of the door, quiet and motionless. Stealing a quick look through the peephole told him nothing. Whoever it was, they were carefully standing outside of its range. 

Screw the waiting game, he thought irritably. Knock, kick in the door, or get the hell out of here. I'm tired. 

After several minutes, his lungs aching from instinctively holding his breath, Methos could wait no longer. Turning the locks as silently as possible, he twisted the knob and pulled open the door. Stepping through it cautiously, he was startled into a near coronary failure as Cassandra whirled from her place against the wall and into his path. 

Slouching back against the doorjamb, he closed his eyes, first noting that her sword was not drawn. "What the hell are you doing, lurking out here?" 

"Did I wake you?" she smirked. Without waiting for the clever retort he might eventually think of, she walked into his apartment uninvited. He rested his head against the doorjamb, cursing silently, and followed her. 

She was taking stock of his living area, making the rounds as though cataloging his possessions for insurance purposes. Rubbing his eyes, he propped himself against the back of the armchair and folded his arms, standing in his boxers and still holding the sword loosely. He wondered how she had found out where he lived. As angry as he was with Methos, MacLeod would not have given her the address. 

"Cassandra, what do you want?" 

She turned, and he noted now the hastily donned old sweater and jeans, the limpness of her long hair, and especially her eyes – the dark circles, the redness where white should be. She was here because she could not rest. 

"You know, that's the first time you've ever said that to me."  
  
"Said what?" 

"What do I want?" She continued to move around the room, touching his things, picking them up, handling them. "That was never much of a concern for you, was it, Methos?" 

He sighed impatiently. No. No ghost hunts, not tonight. Nothing could change their past, but emotional turmoil could certainly impact their immediate future. "Go home, Cassandra. There's too much at stake tomorrow for this." 

Cassandra looked at him inscrutably, setting down a small figurine she'd picked up. Looking across the room, she walked toward a bookcase and ran her finger along the spines, stroking them as though for pleasure. Noticing Methos' nervous shifting of weight, she correctly surmised that knick-knacks were one thing, but books were quite another. 

Finding a volume that looked especially ancient and fragile, she pulled it from the shelf and began to leaf through it quickly, carelessly. He crossed the room, extending his hand to take the book away, but she quickly thrust it behind her, placing her body between it and him, daring him to go after it. Concerned for the book's welfare, Methos attempted to reach around her. She turned enough to keep him from getting to the book, and he reached with the other hand, shifting the sword he'd forgotten he held. She laughed at him, at her success in forcing him to play this game. 

He stopped, willing his hands to his sides. "Give me the book." 

"Take it from me." 

Frustrated, he demanded again, "What is it you want?" 

She glanced down at his hand. "Am I so formidable that you need to keep your sword handy?" 

"I find it's best to maintain a cautious stance with unannounced late-night visitors." He kept the tone light and in character, but his face told a different story as he stepped back a tiny pace. 

Cassandra leaned toward him unexpectedly, caressing the sword with her fingers. "You're very careful not to touch me. Who is it you don't trust here, Methos? Me…or yourself?" 

"Stop this right now," he said harshly. He'd been aiming for authoritative but managed only desperate. As he said it, he turned away, anxious for some distance. To his shock, she gave a forceful shove to his upper arm and shoulder, propelling him in his chosen direction, and swung one leg to pull his feet out from under him. He hit the floor hard, his sword bouncing out of his grasp, and momentarily had the wind sucked from his lungs. 

There was no time to process this incomprehensible turn of events, as she was now straddling him, flipping him onto his back and forcing his shoulders down against the carpeted floor. "Remember our first time, Methos? _Master?_" The mask of the dangerous seductress had slipped away now, revealing a face etched by centuries of remembered humiliation and subjugation. 

"Get off," he gasped, trying to re-inflate lungs now constricted by her weight. Shocking him again, Cassandra slapped him with all her strength and he tasted blood as his teeth cut into his cheek. 

In his mind, he felt the two of them exchanging places, he over her now, teaching her what he expected from his humble servant. Using methods and teaching aids that would be frowned upon in most educational systems today – slaps, arm-twisting, hair-yanking, knives and other implements of pain and fear…and death… 

_In her face he could see equal parts terror and hatred, both of which pleased him, because the conquest was less exciting when it went unchallenged. Kronos had been the one to open up this particular field of interest for him. Before the Horsemen, Methos had had little firsthand experience with the deliberate creation of fear in another person. Then Kronos had taught him not only _how_ to open the floodgates of personal terror in another, but to bathe in it, revel in it, drink it in deeply – to savor it like the coolest fresh water or the sweetest of wine…_

With a violent, anguished moan, Methos threw his hands to his forehead, wishing to force away these memories from an existence long trussed up tightly and tucked away, mummy-like, into the depths of his soul. Cassandra beat his arms away from his face, slapped him viciously again (drawing more blood), and gripped his wrists tightly, pinning them to the floor on either side of his shoulders. 

"I want you to look at me!" she cried, voice harsh and almost unrecognizable. "Face me! Face what you are!" 

"I'm not!" His voice was low and choked. "I'm not that! Not anymore!" 

"You _are!_ I see it in your eyes. You've always lied to everyone else, Methos, but when did you start lying to yourself?" 

He closed his eyes to her expression, which was at once filled with excitement, unquenched need, and bottomless rage. He knew his body had the necessary power to throw her off, but his muscles seemed limp and useless to him. "Please…" It came out as a whisper. To his unimaginable horror, he realized he was near tears. 

The plea and his apparent helplessness only nourished her wrath, and she began to slap him again, this time not as hard, intending to goad him, provoke him. "Come on, you should never be this willing to take your punishment! Where's that famous sense of sport I remember so well? Pinching, remember the pinching? You used it to punch things up a bit if I wasn't feeling particularly combative, didn't you?" 

By way of demonstration, Cassandra proceeded to pinch him – on the arms, the chest, the neck – again daring him to react. She escalated it, pinching harder and harder until she got what she wanted: that first reluctant batting at her hand as his resentment took hold. 

"Yes, that's it. Very good. Feel the anger, just as you made me feel it, night after night." She continued the pinching, quickening it, leaving livid red marks, until his slapping became more impatient and less tentative, progressing to wild blows with hands closed. Finally, Methos pushed her with his right arm as he lifted his right hip, dislodging her from her perch atop him. With a growling cry, he rolled up to a sitting position and trapped her beneath him, now grinding _her_ wrists against the floor. 

Cassandra's face was a roiling pool of molten emotion, swirling, mixing; each second bringing a different feeling to the surface. Sitting on her, not caring that his full weight was bearing down on her, he watched the display, fascinated. He saw them all – anger, fear, self-recrimination, pain. Triumph kept making a repeat appearance, bringing home to him again and again that he – the great manipulator – had been masterfully played. 

"This!" he snarled. "Is this more to your liking? Have you got what you're after now?" He felt ready – eager, even – to live up to her expectations now, and adjusted his position slightly in preparation. 

The visible vortex of her emotional state swirled ever faster at that, and now a new player showed itself, bringing him up short. He watched her face, uncertain that he'd really seen it. 

There it was, yes. Desire. There in the midst of her hatred, her terror, her disgust. After two thousand years, there still lived in Cassandra a browbeaten girl convinced that his attentions – however brutal – might somehow ease her pain, her loss, her fear. Maybe even, just possibly, make them both whole. 

The transition from rage to astonishment created the sensation of a roller coaster making a sudden sharp turn at full speed, and in his disorientation he realized that once, all those millennia ago, he had secretly harbored a similar hope. 

Reeling from this unexpected revelation, Methos entertained what minutes ago would have seemed ludicrous: Maybe she was right. Maybe they could achieve together what they had not accomplished apart. 

The flood waters of his anger receding, he loosened his grip on her wrists until he was only holding rather than restraining, shifting his weight to stop crushing her. He wasn't aware of his thumbs gently caressing the pulse in each of her wrists. Their eyes were locked and unblinking. 

"Cassandra?" It was a question, full of hope and limitless depths of need, offered in a broken, honest voice seldom heard by anyone in 5000 years. 

They were both breathing hard, from physical and emotional exertion. He continued to stare into her face, mesmerized by the unabated ebb and flow of feelings playing across it. She seemed to be searching her very soul for her answer to his almost subliminal question. 

He could see her decision as it came, when desire rose to the top and maintained its position, fighting back all others that strove to prevail. But it came with a partner, a barely acknowledged and ruthlessly cowed subordinate that nevertheless captured his attention and chilled his heart. 

It was shame he saw in her eyes, even as she recognized and accepted her longing. 

So linked were they, so fully intertwined, that they shared these thoughts as they occurred. It was a moment of total communication and unspeakable intimacy, the like of which neither had ever experienced, nor likely would again. 

He pulled away, rolling lethargically off of Cassandra and crawling a few feet to lean heavily against a wall, completely spent. She continued to lie as he'd left her, eyes closed, for some time. Methos finally forced himself into a sitting position, back to the wall, folding his legs up toward his chest and hugging them, resting his spinning head on his knees. 

At last he heard her stirring and, lifting his head, saw her get to her feet. She seemed less imposing, as though she had grown shorter since her arrival; she looked somehow lost within her sweater. Her clothes and hair were in disarray and she made no effort to tidy them. She did not look at him, and he said nothing as she walked wordlessly across the room and out of the apartment. 

There was silence in the room, but Methos could hear the rushing of the blood through his brain.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**_Chapter Thirteen _**

At exactly ninety minutes before the contest start time, Methos entered the dojo. He was wearing a black turtleneck and black jeans, as suited the occasion. It was important to blend into the background during the contest. 

He had felt MacLeod before he left the outer hallway, and the Highlander – also in black – was already watching him as he came into the workout room. Methos scanned the room quickly. 

"Where's Cassandra? I told you both we needed to arrive ear – " 

Duncan had already started to cross the room at a brisk pace the moment he entered, and now he took Methos' arm in a crushing grip, pulling him toward the office. The older immortal had been dragged for several paces before his impatience drove him to yank his arm away. When Duncan took his arm again, Methos pulled away harder, taking a couple of steps backward. 

"What do you think you're doing?" 

"We need to talk." 

"Talking's a non-contact sport." 

Duncan gave a forceful sigh. "I want to keep it private." When Methos made no move, Duncan motioned toward the office in an almost courtly gesture of invitation. 

The old man was in no mood to be manhandled, nor indeed for a private chat with yet another person who had a grudge against him. But since it appeared that their departure would be delayed until he participated in the pre-game show, he returned MacLeod's inviting gesture with a great flourish, and the Scot grudgingly led the way into the office, indicating that Methos should close the door once inside. 

Duncan stood by the window and folded his arms. "What happened last night?" 

"What are you talking about?" 

"Cassandra left in the middle of the night. When she came back, she was a mess, like she'd been in a fight. She was crying, but she wouldn't talk about it." 

"Why assume I had anything to do with it?" 

"Because you're all she talks about, you're all she thinks about, and the whole thing is driving her insane." 

Methos snorted. "It's not as if I instigated this blast from my past, you know. I was quite content, minding my own business – " As he spoke, MacLeod took three strides and gripped him by the lapels of his trench coat. 

"What did you do to her?" 

Methos had to give a short, barking laugh at that. "Believe me, you're reversing the question completely. It's not every night a woman shows up at my door to clean my clock. By the way, how do you suppose she knew where to find me?" 

The distraction worked like a charm. Duncan's expression shifted from fierce to puzzled and he released Methos' coat. "She came to you? To your apartment?" 

"With a vengeance. Fortunately, head-hunting wasn't on her mind, or we'd have one team member on the permanently disabled roster." 

Duncan had turned away, moving to the window and putting his hand on the sill. Hoping against hope that they could wrap things up now, Methos said, "So, if you're satisfied that I haven't wronged the lady, perhaps you'd be good enough to fetch her so we – " 

He regretted the choice of phrasing the instant it left his mouth, and not just because MacLeod spun around and looked ready to thrash him. He threw up his hands in a mollifying gesture. "I was referring to last night, obviously, not to ancient history." 

"What is really going on here, Methos? What's your true agenda? I need to know before I let her go into this in the shape she's in." 

"My agenda, strangely enough, is precisely as I've expressed to you. Kronos wants me to join him, I don't want to, the contest will serve to equalize us in combat…and I need your help. Desperately." He turned slightly, hands in his coat pockets, and leaned against the wall, just beside the doorknob, planning as always for a quick getaway if needed. He added, gently, "And truthfully, I don't think it's your decision about Cassandra. She's her own person, making her own decisions." 

"Decisions that are being driven by events from two thousand years ago. By things that you were responsible for doing to her." 

"True enough. But what do you expect me to do about that now? _I_ didn't want her in on this. She insisted, remember?" 

MacLeod's frustration hovered in the office like a storm cloud. Unable to find an argument against what Methos was saying, he decided to address what hadn't been said. 

"How could you do it, Methos?" His voice was choked and quiet. "How could you have done those things? To all those people? To Cassandra?" 

Methos heaved a sigh that seemed to span ages. "I know it sounds lame to say this, MacLeod. But the world truly was a very different place back then than it was even when you were born. The beginnings of civilization were just that, _beginnings_. The concept of human rights wasn't even a glimmer in anyone's eye. 

"People were made into slaves routinely. It was commonplace, accepted, even expected. And the people who were unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end would have been just as quick to take slaves themselves if their positions had been reversed. It was the way of the world. 

"Those who were strong took what they wanted by whatever means was expedient. Life was cheap because it was short – for mortals, anyway – and there wasn't any reverence for other people, other cultures. It was a textbook demonstration of Darwinism at work." 

"But the killing," Duncan interjected. 

"Was necessary for the strong to maintain their dominance. Without the barbarism, there was no fear, and without fear, no power." 

"Stop using the third person, Methos," Duncan said, right in Methos' face now. "_You_ killed all those people, _you_ were the one using barbarism. And you…" 

"I what?" 

"You…enjoyed it." MacLeod's eyes were boring into his, almost pleading for him to convincingly deny the accusation. 

Methos met that gaze without flinching, but also without granting his friend's wish. "Yes, I did. Completely and wholeheartedly. It was part of what I lived for, I'll admit that. Do I like that about myself? No. Can I deny it? Absolutely not." 

As MacLeod's expression looked pained, then hardened: "Can I erase it? No. Do I still long for it? _No!_ That part of me is gone, MacLeod, long dead. I buried it many centuries before you were even on the planet. Why can't you handle the fact that in my 5000 years, I did some things that you do not approve of? Why does our friendship have to hinge on whether I got pleasure from doing those things _at the time_?" 

"Because it means I misjudged you!" Duncan spat. "It means you're capable of things that I never dreamed of, and that you're not the person I've thought you were all along." 

Now Methos folded his own arms, squinting dangerously at his friend. "Well, then that makes you guilty of voluntary stupidity. How long have you known the truth about who I am, MacLeod? Long enough to have figured out that a man who has lived for 5000 years has probably pretty much run the gamut of human behaviors. The world has changed dramatically over that period, but I have always lived as a man of the times." 

He gave a derisive laugh. "Did you honestly believe that I brought a 20th-century sensibility to life in the Middle Ages or ancient Greece? Did you think I championed equality when social norms demanded I keep slaves? No, I lived as a member of whatever society I belonged to at the time. I didn't dispute the customs, I lived by them, because they were my customs, too." 

"So torture and rape were among the customs you embraced?" MacLeod's eyes shot him a perilous challenge. Suddenly, they were talking about Cassandra again. 

Methos pinched the bridge of his nose. "Again, we are talking about the social norms of the day. Think about it. Unless a person was born into slavery, they tended to resist adopting the slave mindset. It was necessary to break them down and remold them to suit them for whatever role they were intended to fulfill." 

"By torturing and humiliating them?" 

"Yes." 

"By taking pleasure in it?" 

"All right, that's enough!" Methos was close to losing control of himself for the first time during this encounter. "You can't get your mind around someone getting off on hurting and degrading another person, because you can't imagine yourself doing so. But you were born in a different place and time from me, MacLeod, so you don't really know what you might have been capable of in my day and age. Do you?" 

"I know what I think about what you did to Cassandra and her people, and no, I don't think I'd be capable of that. In any time or place." 

Methos laughed loudly, a chilling sound in the small office. "That's because you can't imagine yourself as anything other than Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, righter of wrongs and arbiter of justice. I, on the other hand, don't have to imagine. I have been a great many different things. I know how malleable the human soul can be." 

As Duncan started to turn away in disgust, Methos found himself grabbing him by the shirt. "No, you will stand still and hear this. You know what your problem is? You want to blind yourself to unpleasant realities…about life, about me, and especially, about yourself. Because if I could do the things I've done, maybe you're capable of them, too." 

MacLeod tried to pull away, but Methos gripped the shirt tighter and tugged him close. "But that's what all this is really about, isn't it MacLeod? It's about you, and your hurt, and your anger. You feel that I lied to you, that I pulled the wool over your eyes, fooled the great Duncan MacLeod, detector of evil. And now you're going to hide behind your horror at what I did thousands of years ago, instead of facing your disappointment at what you think I did _to you_ in the last few years." 

Duncan hands grasped Methos' wrists forcefully, but the older immortal held firm to the unlucky black fabric. 

"What do you see when you look at me, MacLeod? Do you see the… the young grad student in need of protection? The mild-mannered, non-violent immortal masquerading as a Watcher? Well, that's not me, MacLeod, that's _Adam Pierson_, a fiction I created to help me stay out of the Game. _Away_ from killing, _away_ from violence. But make no mistake, my friend, once upon a time..._I was Death_. And you would do well not to forget that." 

MacLeod seemed frozen, mesmerized by what he was seeing in the old man's eyes. Inanely, Methos suddenly felt that MacLeod had somehow shrunk, until he realized that the perception came from the way MacLeod was looking at him, as one would regard some unfamiliar, horrifying beast. He felt a stab of astonishment laced with regret and released the shirt abruptly, pulling back shaking hands. Backing away, he noted Duncan's gaze traveling toward the door at the same time as he felt the approach of an immortal. Methos turned to see Cassandra just disembarking the elevator and walking toward the office. 

Dressed all in black like her teammates, she looked small but hard, even brittle, wound so tightly it was clearly an effort to move without jerking or lashing out. Apparently unaware of any emotional upheaval in the air, she looked at them both with shrouded eyes. 

"We're late," she said.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**_Chapter Fourteen _**

Kronos sat, drumming his fingers against the wheel of the black Hummer he had 'procured' for the use of the Horsemen. Silas was content to gaze out the window at the facility that would house the contest; he stretched his legs and turned a laughing face to his brothers. 

"I like this Hummer much better than the airplane brother. A man can move and breathe in here. Not as good as a horse, but good." Silas accompanied the final words with a blow to Kronos' shoulder and a nod to Caspian. 

"Only you would find a horse better than a machine that can carry you twice as far in half the time." The disgust in Caspian's tone was thick as molasses. 

A raised hand by Kronos stalled Silas' return volley before it truly began. "You are trying my patience, _brother_. Both of you are here on my sufferance. Do not forget who is in charge of this undertaking." 

Silence reigned after Kronos' pronouncement. Caspian contemplated the uses of the vast trunk space of the Hummer, while Silas turned his attention to some birds wheeling overhead. Kronos continued to drum the steering wheel in barely restrained impatience. 

Just as Kronos thought he would have to hit something to relieve his tension, a non-descript man hurried out of the facility toward the SUV. Breathing a quiet sigh, Kronos stepped out of the truck. 

************************  
The first five minutes of the drive from the dojo had been excruciatingly tense. MacLeod had chosen to ride in the front with Methos, leaving the back seat to Cassandra and her brittle silence. At least her stillness is better than the dark looks the Highlander keeps throwing my way, thought Methos. 

"You know, if you're not careful, your face will freeze like that." As an icebreaker, it was not one of the best Methos had produced. Suppressing a cringe, he continued, "Really MacLeod, we don't have time for you to brood." 

"We're on our way, what else would you have us do … Methos?" Duncan emphasized the old man's name in a manner that indicated he was still smarting from the revelations in the dojo. 

Methos wrapped his unflappable calm around him like a cloak, the mantras continuing unabated in the back of his mind. "I would have you reach into the glove box and pull out that box." 

MacLeod opened the box as Cassandra leaned forward, her interest piqued by Methos' tone. The inside of the box revealed three comma-shaped pieces of plastic, none bigger than a thumbnail, and three black elastic bands with what looked like small microphones attached. Touching the edge of the box lightly, she asked the required question, "What is this?" 

"What are you up to now, Methos? This looks like communications equipment." MacLeod sounded condemning, and Methos shook his head slightly before answering. 

"Yes, MacLeod, it is communications equipment." He spoke slowly, as he would to a child. "I told you, there will be noise piped in to cover the sound of movement. Probably loud rock music," Methos ignored the look of outrage that crossed Duncan's face at this. "These little babies will let us remain in contact with each other regardless." 

Reaching over, Methos lifted one of the small plastic pieces out of the box, shifting his eyes back to the road quickly. Wouldn't do to have a fatal accident on the way to the contest. Holding the piece in the palm of his hand where both MacLeod and Cassandra could see it, he began to lecture in what he privately referred to as his 'Dr. Pierson' voice. 

"This is an earpiece. It is small enough to remain undetected by anything other than close scrutiny. The case is plastic, and it contains an independent power source. Sorry MacLeod, you won't have one of those cords running into your coat like the Secret Service. It borrows from advances made in technology for hearing aids. 

"The second component is the microphone assembly. The band goes around your neck, with the mike positioned over your larynx. It is somewhat uncomfortable at first, but it eliminates the interference of background noise. This is old technology, German Panzer commanders used it during the Second World War, but the casing has been updated to limit the metal content." 

So intent was Methos on his recitation, that he almost missed MacLeod's subtle stiffening beside him. "What now MacLeod?" he sighed. "Problems with the ethics of it? Too much like cheating for you? Gonna take me to task for using _enemy_ technology?" 

MacLeod quickly swallowed whatever comment he had been about to make. Methos wondered how close he had been with his jabs. Cassandra impatiently waved at Methos. "I assume there's more for us to know?" Her tone indicated that she had no problem with their having an edge on the competition. 

"Right, where was I? This system will enable us to remain in constant communication. Anything you say will go over the system to the other users. Grab a set and put them on so you'll be accustomed to them by the time we get there." Dr. Pierson had returned, and the other two could see him mentally checking his list of information to impart. 

"Why is the plastic so important?" Cassandra ventured from the back seat. He allowed himself a glance at her in the rear view mirror, but her face was down as she worked at putting on the microphone and earpiece. 

With another mental check mark, Methos turned to address the question. "I have arranged for a metal detector at the entrance to the facility. It is sensitive enough to detect a dinner knife in someone's pocket. Didn't want to risk it picking up the electronics." 

"That should keep things fair," Duncan mused. "But who is manning the detector?" 

"There will be five employees on site during the contest. Four are responsible for monitoring the game and maintaining adherence to the rules of the facility. One is in charge of the metal detector and policing the entrance." MacLeod and Cassandra heard the satisfaction in Methos' tone. "I think that covers everything. We'll be there in ten minutes." 

************************  
Silas and Caspian stepped out of the truck at Kronos' signal. Both men were thankful for the opportunity to stretch their legs before the coming conflict. They were also curious as to the identity of the man standing with their leader. 

"Brothers, I would like you to meet the hired help." Although Kronos' tone was jocular, there was no mistaking the condescension with which he viewed the mortal. "Mr. _Smith_ has information for us." Caspian rolled his eyes at the obvious alias and folded his arms across his chest. Silas simply looked menacing and large while he waited for Smith to speak. 

"Yes, well," Mr. Smith nervously cleared his throat. He had thought the money for this job would compensate for a lot of things, but these three men were very intimidating and he was suddenly unsure. Swallowing his fear, he pictured his bank balance instead of the cold eyes staring at him. 

"The facility was rented by a Mr. Benjamin. He paid for several extra features, including the installation of metal detectors and the wages for five employees. As instructed, I have arranged for the metal detectors to be disabled. The employees have agreed to vacate the premises after the contest begins. They have programmed the onsite computers to log all game related information and to broadcast all the necessary messages. The sound system has been pre-programmed with your music selections and set to continuous play." 

"Quite the efficient servant you have here, brother." Caspian grinned as he began to circle the man. Even the illusion of self-possession caused his predatory instincts to spring to life. 

"There is one other thing –" 

"Does he require constant supervision? Has he failed you yet?" The questions drowned out whatever Mr. Smith was trying to say, and the constant circling was very distracting. 

Kronos laughed at Caspian's antics. "Hold brother. Don't confuse the help, we may need him again later." 

"As I was saying," Smith tried again. This time it was Silas who interrupted him. 

"Brothers," he called, "someone is coming." All three men froze and watched from the shadows as the vehicle approached. 

*****************************  
Methos pulled the Jimmy to a halt in a parking space not far from the main entrance. Although the vehicle was more exposed there, it would be more convenient were a quick getaway required. Cassandra was the first to alight, looking around cautiously and stepping to the back of the truck to adjust her communications gear. Methos laid his hand on MacLeod's arm to stall his exit. 

"Wait MacLeod, there's one more thing you should know. I've hidden weapons throughout the playing field." He hurried on with his explanation before MacLeod could interrupt. "There are two swords secreted under the stairs to the catwalk in the north-east corner. Another is hidden in a barrel in the north-west section. I've managed to hide other weapons in alcoves and on ledges. You should be able to find some daggers, throwing knives, stilettos and the like pretty easily. Just try to imagine where I would put them." 

"Why are you telling me this now, Methos? Why not when Cassandra was in the car?" MacLeod's anger was building again. "Are you so afraid of what she might do to you that you're willing to leave her defenceless?" 

Methos heaved a sigh. "She is the least of my worries at the moment, MacLeod. But frankly, I don't think she's in the proper frame of mind just now to know about these weapons." The old man seemed exhausted. "But believe me when I say I truly do not wish to see her hurt any more than she has been. I just wanted you to know that the weapons are there, in case Kronos tries anything. If he does, I assure you I will make sure Cassandra is able to defend herself. Or you can, if you are closer." 

"What could he try, Methos? You've planned for everything. You could probably make a career out of this." MacLeod made no attempt to hide his bitterness. 

"You don't know Kronos, what he's capable of, what he – " 

"And I don't know you either," MacLeod interjected. "You've made that abundantly clear." Shaking off the hand neither had realized still lay on his arm, MacLeod stepped out of the Jimmy just in time to feel approaching immortal presence, and to hear Cassandra gasp.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**_Chapter Fifteen _**

Remaining in the Jimmy for a few more seconds, Methos felt the approach of the Horsemen as a malevolent throbbing deep in his head. This was not how he'd intended for the two groups to have their first encounter. If only he and MacLeod had not had that time-consuming heart-to-heart earlier, they might have arrived and been inside the facility well ahead of Kronos and the others. 

Hearing Cassandra's gasp over the communications system made him suddenly aware that she was now catching her first sight of the unexpected Caspian and Silas, and that she was standing behind the Jimmy, exposed to their view as well. Rushing to open the door and get out of the truck, Methos carefully sauntered around to the back of the vehicle and casually placed himself between the advancing Horsemen and their former slave. He was careful not to make eye contact with Cassandra – flanked protectively by Duncan, aware of her distress but not the reason for it – as he did this. 

He stood, hands in his pockets, like a gunfighter awaiting the latest challenge. 

***********************  
When Cassandra got out of the vehicle, Kronos could hardly believe his eyes. Of course, he'd been aware of her tracking him for quite some time, and had plans to deal with her when the moment was right, but to have her involved in this little venture was far more than he would have dared hope for. He thought with some chagrin that he could have made far better use of her had he known in advance of her participation. 

The glance he shot at Smith caused the mortal to recoil as from a physical blow. "I only found out about her last night," he sputtered, correctly guessing the cause of the dark look. "You were sleeping off jet lag. I didn't want to disturb you. I did try to tell you earlier." 

Caspian, smelling blood in the water, was clearly torn between pouncing on Smith's discomfiture and advancing on Cassandra, a delectable treat he had been denied two thousand years ago and which he had been craving ever since. Looking at her from across the parking lot, he licked his lips.  
  
"Patience, brother," Kronos murmured in his ear. "I promise you full rights to her once I've returned her parting gift to me all those years ago." Caspian leered his agreement. Tossing a threatening "Wait here" toward the hapless Smith, Kronos led his brothers toward their rivals, where their fourth and errant brother now stood waiting. 

***********************  
Of the three men standing before them, Duncan recognized only Kronos. Cassandra's sudden palor and Methos' somber demeanor told him that the other two were known to them both, and it didn't take precognition to guess who they were. 

"Greetings, brother," Kronos purred to the old immortal. "First, let me thank you for your invaluable assistance in reuniting me with our lost brothers. By day's end, the Four Horsemen will ride again...thanks to you." 

Duncan shot Methos a burning look, knowing he could somehow feel it on the back of his neck, but the older man gave no indication as he replied with a smirk in his voice. "Ah, Kronos. You always were one for baseless assumptions." 

Kronos flashed a wide but mirthless grin at Methos before turning his attention to the Highlander. "Duncan MacLeod. I've long looked forward to a reunion with you, as well. We have some unfinished business, you and I." 

"I expect all debts to be made good by the time this is through," Duncan said calmly, arms folded. 

"On that, we are in complete agreement," Kronos laughed. "I present to you my brothers, Silas and Caspian. Clearly, you've met Methos, my dear right hand." 

Duncan deemed it safest to say nothing. 

The large man, Silas, now approached Methos with a friendly grin that seemed out of place under the circumstances. "Brother!" he boomed, and wrapped the oldest immortal in a bear hug that lifted his feet from the ground and audibly forced air from his lungs. 

"Hello, Silas," Methos grunted, betraying a hint of a smile and giving his back a couple of slaps. 

Kronos allowed the hug to continue for some ten or so seconds before saying quietly, "Silas, put him down now." Silas regretfully obeyed and retreated, but not before awarding his long-lost friend with a hearty slap on the back that nearly knocked Methos to his knees. 

Without warning Kronos moved toward Cassandra. "And look who we have here." When Duncan moved to cut him off from her, Kronos squared off, nostrils flaring over an eager grin, and Caspian and Silas moved in to offer support. In the blink of an eye, Methos was between the Scot and the scarred one, his back to MacLeod and leaning against him slightly – though whether this was to keep Duncan back or to avoid making physical contact with Kronos himself, MacLeod wasn't sure. Methos raised a hand to halt the approaching Silas and Caspian, the latter of whom looked to Kronos for instruction. 

After a few seconds of eye contact with Methos, Kronos nodded his order to stand down, and Caspian subtly backed off. "Time enough for all of this," Kronos said expansively. "Shall we enter?" He gestured grandly toward the facility. 

Methos nodded to Duncan, who reached for Cassandra's arm. 

***********************  
She hadn't realized until Duncan touched her arm that she was pressing her back flush against the Jimmy's rear hatch. Cassandra felt her face get hot, ashamed that after two thousand years, the sight of the Horsemen still inspired such terror within her. Catching Methos' eye, she flashed him a black look for his deception, but received only an opaque gaze in return as he hung back to bring up the rear of their team. 

Allowing Duncan to guide her toward the building, she heard Kronos' voice in her ear as he leaned in suddenly. "We'll have a nice chat later." Cassandra barely suppressed a shudder and hurried her pace. Her breathing was coming in short gasps, and she closed her eyes, trying to find a calm place within herself to which to retreat. Her nerve was rapidly failing her. 

Sensing her burgeoning panic, Duncan sought to offer support by putting his hand on her shoulder. Because she wanted nothing more than to wrap herself in the protective comfort of his strength, she jerked away from his hand and hurried toward the door. 

************************  
While finding it difficult to turn his back on Kronos, Methos nevertheless betrayed no discomfort as he followed his team through the door. Soon all six immortals had entered the facility which the boldly colored sign outside proclaimed to be "Laserocity." 

The perky brown-haired girl Methos had dealt with several times in the past week greeted each of them brightly as they entered and helped them navigate the state-of-the-art metal detector he'd ordered. MacLeod and Cassandra went through without incident, and after placing his car keys into the little tray, so did Methos. Returning his keys, the perky girl skipped eye contact entirely. Odd, given the rather aggressive flirting she'd done with him on every previous encounter. 

The old immortal tensed when Kronos excused himself and went back outside, returning less than two minutes later, but he, too, sailed through the security screen without offense. 

Within five or six minutes of entering Laserocity, both teams had cleared security and were ushered into the "briefing room" to receive the rules and instructions for the game, Methos' nerves singing like the strings of a violin tuned much too high. The Horsemen had assembled along a wall without a bench, Kronos leaning against the wall with his arms folded and wearing a palpable air of command. Silas and Caspian together constituted a coiled spring, awaiting his release of the safety mechanism to leap into action. 

Team Methos, on the other hand, placed itself in a corner far from its competition, Cassandra hugging herself on the bench, Duncan standing at her side trying not to look concerned. The team captain himself chose a spot on the bench a couple of feet from Cassandra, but adopted a nonchalant slouching posture. He almost looked bored to death. 

"Hi, I'm Ken," said the gangly staffer who bustled into the room. "Welcome to Laserocity. How many of you have played laser tag before?" Ken looked around at each of them, clearing expecting a show of hands. 

"None," Methos sighed before the silence grew menacing. 

"Okay," Ken breezed on. "Well, basically, you'll have two teams. Each team has a base to defend. The playing field has numerous obstacles and shelters to hide behind or get trapped in. The bases are cone-shaped structures hanging from the ceiling and have a sensor on the bottom. You shoot this sensor from directly under it six consecutive times to disable it. Disable your opponents' base three times and you win. 

"Each of you will be issued a vest with a power pack and sensors on the chest, back, and shoulders." Ken touched each of these areas on himself as he spoke. "Your weapon is attached to the vest by a short cable. A direct hit to the chest or back will disable your weapon for six seconds; shots to the shoulder kill it for three seconds. 

"If a player is activated, the lights on the sensors will be steady; if he's disabled, they'll flash. No need to shoot at someone who's disabled – the sensors are only active when the weapon is active. Try not to disable your own teammates. You can tell yours from your opponents by the color of lights. One team will be yellow, the other one's red. 

"Rules of conduct are basically, no running, no climbing onto the obstacles, no jumping from the catwalk, and no competitive physical contact with other players. Let your weapon do all the attacking. Any questions?" 

"Will the game be supervised?" Having written the game plan himself, Methos already knew the answer; he simply wanted the information to be out on the table for all participants to see. 

"Yes," said Ken, looking away quickly. "There are cameras covering the whole playing field, and the action will be monitored by several people in the control room. Any conduct violations will be acknowledged over the intercom. Three violations will disqualify the offending team." Ken scanned the somber faces of the group, avoiding Methos' eyes. The old man felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up slightly. 

"Well, I guess that's it. Let's get you all suited up and start the game." 

Ken herded his six charges into a room containing several racks of laser tag vests. Silently, they all shrugged on the cumbersome vests and buckled the straps. Methos still cultivated his air of disinterest, Cassandra still looked small and vulnerable, and Duncan glowered like a warrior being asked to settle a serious dispute via tiddlywinks. On the other side of the room, Ken was struggling to locate a vest that could accommodate Silas' girth. Caspian leered at Cassandra constantly, while Kronos kept his annoying half-smile aimed at his prodigal brother, who studiously ignored him. 

Just as Methos was about to ask Ken about the irritating low-frequency hum he kept hearing, he realized it was the sound of his own anxiety resonating in his head. For the first time, he questioned his plan and the wisdom of going through with the contest. Beads of sweat formed all over his forehead, and he suddenly knew that things were about to go very, very wrong. 

"Okay," Ken said, clapping his hands together. "We're ready to go." 

Silently, they all filed into the playing field.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**_Chapter Sixteen _**

The room that would house the contest was large, oblong, and high-ceilinged, with the cone-shaped bases hanging in the northwest and southeast corners. The latter was on somewhat higher ground due to a built-in gradual incline in the lightly carpeted floor, making it more easily defensible. A coin toss awarded this base to Methos' team. He hoped grimly that this was a precursor to a run of good luck throughout the game. 

Several barrels, a small length of six-foot wall with window-like openings, and a few smaller oddly shaped barriers offered some protection from easy invasion of the base. The base taken by Kronos had similar obstructions around it, although it had a longer wall and no barrels. 

A catwalk, eight feet high, ran along the east wall of the room from the northern edge and stopped a couple of feet short of the Horsemen's base. The room was murky and a smoky haze hung in the air. Telling them to enjoy the game, Ken left by the door they had entered from and both teams reported to their bases. 

"Okay, here's the plan," Methos said. "Cassandra, you are on guard duty, protecting the base. When you see one of them approaching, disable them before they get too close if at all possible. Try for the chest or back sensors; they'll be deactivated longer." Her eyes looked huge and sunken and he wondered if she'd understood anything he said until she nodded. 

"MacLeod, start out on the catwalk by this near wall. It's a good position for sniper activity, and an excellent vantage point. Keep your eyes on the base and be ready to lend a hand if it comes under attack." As their eyes met, both men understood that Methos was talking not about the base but about Cassandra. Duncan nodded his agreement. 

"What are you going to be up to?" Cassandra asked, her voice harsh. 

"I'll work my way toward their base. Hopefully, I'll get lucky and draw first blood." He suppressed a wince at the choice of words. "But remember, we'll be in constant vocal contact. If anything goes wrong, sing out and I'll be back as soon as I can to help. And if you see a potential ambush or anything…worrisome," he turned to MacLeod, "be as succinct as possible when you warn me." He looked searchingly at his friend, hoping that he still had enough clout to rate such a warning. 

Suddenly, the lights dimmed more and the room was filled with the raucous strains of Bon Jovi, "Living On a Prayer," at high volume. Impatient with MacLeod's affronted expression, Methos waved his hand and the Scot took off for the stairs to the catwalk. Turning to leave the base himself, Methos glanced over his shoulder at Cassandra. 

"If you get into trouble, yell." 

Her eyes narrowed and she gestured with her rifle for him to leave. Sighing, Methos moved away in a quick, crouching walk. 

The instant he rounded the first barrier, the lights on his vest began flashing and an electronic alarm sounded. Looking all around him, he spotted Kronos about forty feet away, grinning and giving a wave before he ducked behind a wall. Taking advantage of being disabled, Methos rushed across the floor to a shelter about halfway between the bases and waited out his remaining seconds of deactivation. 

He stuck his head out to glare at Duncan up on the catwalk. "Thanks for the warning." MacLeod started to shrug but suddenly had to dodge a laser beam, firing back at someone else on the catwalk. Methos saw Caspian throw himself over the catwalk railing to a rolling landing on the floor. That's a violation, he thought with satisfaction. Maybe they'll disqualify themselves and we can call it a day. He listened for the p.a. to announce the violation, but no announcement came. 

His vest lights ceased flashing, and Methos peered through a window-hole in the shelter. Kronos was approaching their base and Methos had a perfect shot at his back. Kronos never even saw where the disabling shot came from. The old man chuckled and practically slithered out of the shelter. 

Darting from one barrier to the next, Methos made it to the opposing base without further assault. As he'd expected, Silas had been appointed guardian. Keeping his head below the top of the wall in front of the base, the wily old immortal made his way to the end of the wall, crawled around it, and fired at Silas' back. The large man looked confused by the flashing and the noise from his vest, turning around to spot Methos walking calmly into the base area, grinning. 

"How's it going, Silas?" Standing under the base, Methos fired six shots methodically into the sensor. An electronic tone and a strobe effect signaled the disabling of the base. Methos frowned slightly. Wasn't there supposed to be a p.a. acknowledgement of a base being captured? 

"Well done, brother," Silas chuckled. "You always could fool me, couldn't you?" 

"Well, you always had your own strengths, too," Methos answered distractedly. Part of him hoped that MacLeod was enjoying the exchange over the communications system, the same part of him that hoped the mike was picking up the increased volume he had to use so Silas could hear him over the music. 

"Indeed I did. And still do." Smiling affectionately, the huge immortal stepped closer, blocking Methos from one exit. As Methos backed toward the opening he'd come from, Silas crowded him, steering him into the four-foot wall instead. The big man's vest was indicating it was activated again, but firing at him seemed superfluous at the moment. 

The music stopped, and both men looked at each other in the sudden silence. "Kronos said you've forgotten how to be a Horseman, brother," Silas said compassionately. "I could help you remember." As he finished speaking, Guns 'N Roses' "Welcome to the Jungle" blared from the hidden speakers. 

"That's very thoughtful," Methos said, a bit frantically. Through his forgotten earpiece, he heard Cassandra's voice scream, "Let go! Let go of me! _Methos__!_" followed by MacLeod's yelling her name. He looked over his shoulder in time to see the Highlander jump from the catwalk, get up from the floor, and dash recklessly toward their base. 

There was no p.a. chastisement. 

Glancing at the nearest security camera, Methos noted with a sinking heart the lack of a little red light. The cameras were not even on. 

"So," Methos said to Silas, resignedly, "your job in this is actually…" 

"To take care of you," Silas finished happily. From his back, he drew a knife. Methos saw but one chance and threw himself backward over the wall, but before he could get to his feet, Silas had reached over the wall and hauled him back over it one-handed. Unable to escape the iron grip, Methos tried several kicks and punches, knowing that to Silas, his blows were like the wind batting weeds against his limbs. 

Silas raised the knife to deliver the temporarily killing stroke, but his face betrayed his distaste. Even with the chaotic vocalizations of his teammates streaming into one ear, and the screaming of Axl Rose pouring into the other, Methos could almost hear the giant's distress at raising a blade to his favorite brother. 

Releasing Methos, Silas moved the knife to his other hand. Before the old man could make a break for it, however, Silas raised his right hand again – knifeless, this time – and plowed it into the side of Methos' head, sending him sprawling, senseless about six feet away. 

Lying crumpled against a barrier, Methos could feel himself seesawing between consciousness and unconsciousness. He struggled to get to his feet, but managed only to lift his head a half inch. The screams of Cassandra rang through his soul, but all he could think was… Rest. I just need to rest a minute. 

His eyes closed.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**_Chapter 17 _**

It was funny. When Methos was standing in front of her yammering about yelling if she needed his help, all she wanted was him out of her sight. Now that she was alone in the base, Cassandra felt woefully vulnerable. Even his presence would have been welcome. Possibly. 

Looking upward into the northeast corner, she caught Duncan's eye. He waved, then remembered she could hear him. "I'm watching," he said simply. She nodded, not trusting her voice to be steady. 

She saw Kronos ducking behind a barrier forty or fifty feet away. A minute or two later, he was ten feet nearer. She cursed him silently. She never got a long enough glimpse to get a bead on him. Her peripheral vision picked up something falling from the catwalk, and she turned her head to see Caspian hit the floor and roll. Break your neck, she thought sourly. 

Thus distracted, she didn't see Kronos looming fifteen feet away until he had her in his sight. She pulled back, but the red lights on his vest started flashing. His look of surprise and anger was almost comical as he spun around looking for the culprit. She chuckled, flashing a look at MacLeod. "Thanks." 

"Wasn't me," he said. She felt a stab of surprise herself, then shrugged. Even Methos was bound to come through once in a while. Just don't expect him when it's important. 

Knowing that Kronos would be advancing again, she ducked down and headed toward the opposite side of the base. Peering through a window-hole in the six-foot wall, she saw him, again about fifteen feet away. Quickly aiming at his chest, she pulled the trigger, but he moved and her beam caught his shoulder sensor. Well, three seconds disabled was better than nothing. 

Starting to get into the spirit of the game, she was smiling slightly as she backed around toward the far north side of the base area, anxious to try to hit Kronos yet again. She was startled when she backed into something. 

"Hello, pretty lady," said Caspian into the silence of the song change. The simple greeting was unbearably lewd coming from his lips. 

Her blood suddenly replaced with ice water, Cassandra's voice deserted her as well. The best she could manage was small huffing sounds as she backed away. He matched her pace, clearly toying with her. She shot without thinking, and his vest lights flashed. Caspian laughed, a revolting, ghastly sound, even with the obscenely loud music that had begun once again. 

Energized by that laugh, Cassandra turned to bolt, and he grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking her toward him. Pain and anger joined with her terror to restore her voice. "Let go! Let go of me!" Incomprehensibly, she added, "_Methos_!" 

A voice from her earpiece shouted her name, but whether it was Duncan or the old man, she couldn't tell, because Caspian was whispering in her other ear. She couldn't understand the words over the music, but his unwholesome intent was clear enough. Slamming her effortlessly against the wall, he crowded into her personal space, rubbing himself against her urgently, gruesomely. 

She turned her head and squirmed, and he used her hair again to brutally pin her head back against the wall. The other hand came up to the side of her face, and she felt cold metal on her cheek. "There, there," he said, stroking her face gently, rhythmically, with an eight-inch knife. Never had she felt less soothed by those words. 

********************  
Damn it! Duncan couldn't believe he hadn't noticed Caspian's backdoor advance. The distraction of Kronos' obvious frontal assault had worked on him as well as Cassandra. He launched himself from the catwalk (let them disqualify me, he thought), landing off-balance and crashing to the floor. He was up almost before he finished falling and was rushing toward the base. 

As though materializing from thin air, Kronos was suddenly in his path. Frowning, MacLeod at first couldn't place what was different about him. The vest, said a helpful voice in his head. The laser tag vest was gone, and with it the pretense that this was a game. Kronos waved his ridiculously large sword at Duncan, who belatedly remembered Methos' confession about swords hidden under the catwalk stairs. 

Wildly, he struggled to remember where the old man had told him the third one was hidden. Barrel, said the voice again. Duncan's eyes flitted to the three barrels placed near the front of their base. 

Taking advantage of MacLeod's wandering attention, Kronos lunged with the broadsword. It struck Duncan's chest as he pulled away, but the vest absorbed the blow, resulting in a damaging gash to the chest sensor and housing. There goes Methos' security deposit, Duncan thought absurdly. He leaped suddenly, up and over the nearest barrier, narrowly escaping a cutting swipe by Kronos' sword. 

He hit the floor less gracefully this time, wrenching his right shoulder. Realizing he was still clutching the laser gun, he dropped it, hauled himself to his feet and made a beeline for the barrels, Kronos in hot pursuit. The rifle banged painfully against his knees as it dangled from the cable. Great idea, letting go of it. 

Feeling the breeze from yet another sword-swing, Duncan dove head-first at the barrels. They were weighted, but fortunately not that heavily. None of them fell over. On his knees, he shoved each of them over, casting about for the sword. Methos, if you were lying... 

Success! The third barrel contained a longsword, and he grabbed it gratefully. 

He felt Kronos' sword plunge deeply into his back and howled in pain. 

************************  
The knife was still stroking the left side of Cassandra's face as Caspian buried his obscene grin in her hair, nuzzling the right side of her neck. Hearing the hissing of his breath, she understood that he was sniffing her. When she felt his tongue on her skin, her stomach rolled. She screamed long and wordlessly. 

Stopping for a breath, she heard Duncan's cry of agony in her ear and her heart went cold. The word "No!" was being screamed over and over, and she realized it was coming from her. Caspian laughed, thinking her performance was all for him. Galvanized yet again by the sound of his laughter, Cassandra realized that she still clutched the laser rifle between their bodies. Bending her knees as much as his grip on her hair permitted, she launched herself upward suddenly and brought the point of the rifle straight up into Caspian's chin. 

With a grunt, he staggered backward, releasing her hair, and she took the opportunity to run out of the base area. Before she cleared the final barrier, however, she ran into the hilt of Kronos' broadsword and collapsed, stunned, into a heap at his feet. 

************************  
Mostly recovered, Caspian leapt upon her, knife poised. "Stay, brother," commanded Kronos as he dragged the bloodied and limp Duncan into the base area. 

"What are we waiting for?" Caspian rasped, voice harsh with rage and need. It echoed loudly in the pause between songs. 

"Did you pay me no attention on the plane, Caspian? The deaths of these two mean nothing unless they happen in Methos' presence. Silas should be bringing him momentarily, and then we will feast on the last of his fragile hope." Giving the unconscious Scot a kick for fun, he added, "I promise, you can play with her to your heart's content after I kill MacLeod. And Methos will watch it all." 

Acknowledging Caspian's grinning nod, Kronos turned to look toward his own team's base. Soon Silas would appear bearing Methos… and the future of the Four Horsemen.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**_Chapter Eighteen _**

He lay motionless against the low barrier, drifting through a dark internal landscape. Somewhere, friends needed help, and enemies were close, but the effort required to surmount the obstacles between himself and those around him seemed huge. 

Suddenly, two sounds broke the inner stillness. One was a man's cry of agony, the cry of a friend in dire need. The second was even more familiar, a woman's voice chanting "No, no, no …" 

Eyes snapped open, just as a hush of silence fell over the room once more. The wailing guitars ceased as the eyes quickly catalogued position and resources. Recognizing the wall, and his position against it, a hand snaked out to retrieve the stiletto taped under the small ledge beside him. 

As the dirge-like gongs of "Hell's Bells" began to sound ominously through the arena, a small smile crossed his face, never reaching the cold eyes that looked for the nearest target. 

Levering himself upward slowly, he focussed on Silas. The big man had his back turned as he removed his laser tag vest. Ease of movement had obviously become more of a priority than watching the man crumpled beside the wall. 

Easing forward cautiously, stiletto extended, he slid easily into a blind spot behind Silas. With a quick swipe of the blade, he sliced through his larger opponent's right hamstring. Silas cried out in pain just as the first guitar chords of the song rang out, effectively swallowing the noise. As Silas gazed up at him with eyes full of hurt and anger, he efficiently sliced the other hamstring. 

Straightening, he quickly removed his own vest and laser rifle. Whereas Silas had fussed with the buckles, he sliced through the straps with his razor sharp blade. Dropping the vest on the bigger man, he turned one last cold gaze upon his brother, then slipped into the darkness. 

************************  
Kronos greeted the sound of the AC DC anthem with a small smile. This song was Silas' signal to bring Methos to the other base. The instructions had been simple: stab Methos in the heart and bring him to this base with the blade still in his chest. Kronos was eagerly anticipating the moment when he pulled the knife free and looked into his wayward brother's eyes, savoring the dawning awareness of his hopeless situation. 

Leaning over the still stunned Cassandra, he grabbed her by the hair, unconsciously mimicking Caspian's earlier action in bringing his lips close to her ear. 

"This time, you will not escape me, woman." The harsh whisper slid across Cassandra's neck, causing her to shiver. "When we are finished with you, you will be begging for death. Ah, but wait, you begged for Death before, didn't you? He will no more save you now, than he did then." 

Seeing MacLeod begin to stir beside him, Kronos dropped Cassandra to the floor once more. "Watch her," he yelled to Caspian. 

**********************  
The shadows along the west wall of the arena yielded more weapons to his eager hands. Some were placed in pockets, others tucked into boots and the waistband of his jeans. As he gathered them, he continued to make his way swiftly and silently toward the opposite base. 

Edging along a false wall in the southwest corner, he finally got a glimpse of his prey. Kronos was moving to the left, his sword drawn and pointed threateningly at someone on the floor. Caspian leaned on a low wall, nonchalantly menacing with knife in hand. 

Crouching low, he darted across the open space between the false wall and an eight-foot wall at right angles to it. Ducking once more into the shadows, he planned the next leg of his strike. Calculating angles, and the likelihood of being heard over the pounding beat of the music, he dared a quick glance around the wall to ensure his prey remained stationary. 

An athletic dive, and two quick rolls resulted in having his back flush against the low wall Caspian was seated upon. He had figured his trajectory correctly, and was almost directly behind his least favourite brother. As he prepared to move again, the music stopped, and he decided to bide his time a little longer. 

***********************  
The cessation of the music coincided with Duncan MacLeod's final burst of healing. Releasing one last groan, he tried to sit up. Kronos' sword met that effort, at neck level. 

"Well MacLeod, how do you like your visit with the Horsemen so far?" Kronos punctuated his question with increased pressure against Duncan's vulnerable neck. 

"Don't invite me back next year." MacLeod tried to use his sarcasm to distract Kronos long enough to throw a glance toward Cassandra. Kronos was having none of it, and backhanded the Highlander viciously. 

"Don't bother looking at her, she's already dead. So are you for that matter. Once my brother arrives, you will be of one final use to me. Your death will reunite the Horsemen for the last time." As Kronos spoke those words, the sound of a demented laugh shrieked through the hidden speakers, signalling the beginning of the next song. 

Caspian grinned as he recognized Black Sabbath's "Paranoid" ringing through the arena. Kronos was not so amused, however. Silas should have been here by now, he thought. Something was going horribly wrong. 

************************  
As he crouched behind the wall, his suspicions were confirmed. Both MacLeod and Cassandra were at the mercy of his former brothers. Breathing quietly, he waited for the music to begin again; that would be his signal to move. 

He exploded into action at the first sound of the staccato guitar chords. Rising swiftly, he turned to slide behind Caspian. Catching the other man's head with his left hand, his right hand drove the stiletto between the ribs, angling up to pierce the lungs and nick the heart. 

Cassandra, surprised by the flurry of movement, looked up to see the point of the dagger protruding from Caspian's chest. Before she had time to even comment on that happy event, he was over the wall and striding toward Kronos' exposed back. 

Reaching behind his back, he pulled the short-barrelled .44 Magnum out of his waistband. Snicking off the safety, he stepped forward and thrust the barrel under Kronos' jaw. The whole procedure was complete before MacLeod's face could reveal his presence. 

Grabbing Kronos' sword, he risked a moment to shoot at the most likely location of the hidden speaker. In the relative silence that resulted, his cold voice was clear. 

"Do you think this gun could completely blow your head off?"


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**_Chapter Nineteen _**

Music could be heard beyond the tense circle of anxious participants that surrounded the base. But in that area, silence reigned. As Duncan struggled to his feet, he heard Kronos' voice slide sinuously into the silence. 

"Welcome back, brother. It has been too long." 

There was no verbal response from the silent man at his back. Instead, the gun was shoved farther into Kronos' jaw. The front sight on the barrel broke the tender skin just beneath his ear, and a single drop of blood began to slip down his neck. 

Duncan gazed over at Cassandra, to find her morbidly fascinated with watching blood bubble at Caspian's lips in time with his shallow breaths. She seemed to be hovering over him in a deathwatch. With one last rattle, his chest ceased moving, and she finally dragged her gaze to the tableau that had Duncan riveted. 

Her gasp as she looked at Methos was quite audible. The stiffening of her posture, and the way in which she seemed to psychically curl in on herself told Duncan that this man in front of him was the Methos she once knew. 

This was the man who had broken slaves to his will. This was the killer who had ridden joyfully out of the sun with his band of brothers. This was Death, a man who had spawned a legend that still carried weight two thousand years later. 

In that moment, Duncan realized something that had eluded him; this was _not_ the man _he_ knew. This cold killer was a stranger to him, a nightmare creation of time and circumstance. Duncan knew a brief moment of vertigo as he struggled to accommodate the competing versions of Methos that now occupied his mind. 

As Duncan stood with his thoughts in disarray, his warrior's instincts noted a shift in Methos' posture. The sword in his left hand began to drop as he tightened his grip on the gun in his right hand, preparatory to firing perhaps. 

"Methos!" Duncan's voice rang out loud and clear in stillness of the scene before him. But Methos did not so much as flinch. Kronos too seemed frozen in time, life signalled only by the flaring of his nostrils as he drew deep breaths into his lungs. He had remained silent after his greeting to Methos, somehow knowing just how far he could push and still keep his head. 

But Duncan had a better vantage point than Kronos to watch the drama unfold. He saw the coldness in Methos' eyes; saw the way he looked dispassionately over the players left on the field. With every second that ticked off the clock, Duncan saw his friend, _his Methos_, slipping further away. He saw the thumb lift to cock the gun, and tried one last desperate gambit. 

"Adam! Don't do this." 

This time Cassandra jumped at the sound of Duncan's voice. She hadn't moved since she locked eyes on Death, but the more modern name seemed to have shaken her from her stasis. 

"Adam," her murmur carried clearly over the communications equipment that both Methos and MacLeod still wore. "_Is_ he Adam now?" 

The repetition of the name had some small effect on Methos. The thumb that had been hovering over the hammer of the gun relaxed slightly. Duncan noted this and moved closer to the two men locked in a deadly embrace before him. 

"Adam," he said soothingly, "you don't have to do this. This isn't who you are anymore." Two more steps toward them, and a little closer to reminding Methos how far he had come since his Horsemen days. "Remember the point of this contest? You were supposed to bring Kronos to your level, not descend to his." 

Kronos snorted at those words, and was rewarded with increased pressure from the gun barrel, and a nudge against his shoulder by the sword that rose menacingly on his left side again. He wisely refrained from making any further comment. 

Duncan breathed a quick sigh of relief when Kronos remained silent. The true fight for Methos' soul was being waged within Methos, and Duncan wanted Kronos to stay on the sidelines. Further provocation might lead to a situation where Methos would not be able to find his way back from the cold place inside him labelled Death. 

"Please, don't do this Adam." Duncan began to see what he hoped was his friend in the cold eyes before him. "We can help you, you don't need to do this on your own." Part of Duncan recognized that he was repeating himself and uttering meaningless phrases for the most part. The important thing, however, was the dawning recognition he saw in the eyes of Death. 

"MacLeod, I –" The first words were halting, and interrupted by Kronos. 

"Don't listen to him, brother. He means to keep you from your rightful place. We should be the rulers of these sheep, not be bound by their laws as he would have you be." Kronos was warming to his theme when suddenly his own blade caressed his throat. 

"Do not tempt me, brother. I have never wished your death, but I would not mourn you deeply." The chill of the words cut sharply into all the listeners present. Duncan opened his mouth to try to gain back lost ground, but was cut off by the dry tones of the man before him. 

"Save it, Highlander. You've already done your bit to save my tortured old soul." The sarcastic bite of the words was belied by the warmth and thankfulness Duncan saw in Methos' eyes briefly before they were once again shuttered. "What say we finish this?" 

Duncan marvelled silently at the ease with which Methos changed personas. In the span of less than two minutes the old man had shifted from confusion, to the cold killer that Kronos longed for, to the sardonic wiseass that Duncan recognized. But this time Duncan vowed not to be misled by the emotional shell game that Methos played so well. 

As MacLeod thought, Methos acted; moving with that deceptive speed which never failed to surprise Duncan, Methos threw Kronos' sword several feet away and stepped back beyond his reach. He kept the gun levelled at the leader of the Horsemen as he continued to back away. 

"Well, Kronos, I'd say we could call this contest a vic-" 

Almost before Duncan could process the fact that Methos had stopped speaking, the sound of gunshot filled the air. Kronos lay dead on the floor, the knife he had pulled from a forearm sheath still clutched in his hand. Methos looked down at him in disgust, then turned toward MacLeod and Cassandra. 

"Let's go. We're done here."


	20. Chapter Twenty

**_Chapter 20 _**

Methos led Duncan and Cassandra quickly through the maze of barriers to the door that had granted them entry. Grasping the handle, he shook it and frowned. 

"Locked." He cursed quietly but didn't look terribly surprised. 

"Emergency exit?" Duncan asked, looking around for one. 

"I think we can count on it being locked, too," Methos said bitterly. "So much for the best-laid plans. Kronos certainly got the drop on me this time." 

Cassandra's mind flashed back to the day she had followed Methos to learn where he lived, and to his other, mortal follower. Something close to – but not quite – guilt washed over her like a gentle rain. 

"We need to get to the swords," Methos was saying. 

"Swords?" Cassandra echoed, expecting Duncan to be as bewildered as she. 

"The ones under the catwalk stairs should still be there," Duncan said. "The one from the barrel is probably out on the floor near the base, unless Kronos grabbed it while I was out." Neither he nor the old man noticed Cassandra's look of slowly building anger as she realized she'd been left out on the weaponry information. 

Methos began handing out some of the trinkets he'd gathered on his trip across the playing field, just in case something came up before they could reach the swords. To Duncan, he gave a bowie knife, a shortsword, and a hatchet. Cassandra received a police-issue nightstick, another throwing knife, a dagger, and a revolver. She wondered what he had kept for himself, other than the knife she could see tucked behind him. 

"Stick together," he said, and they hurried across the playing field toward the northeast corner. 

The music changed as they traveled, and Van Halen's "Running With the Devil" played as the three made it to the catwalk stairs without incident. Cassandra knew it wouldn't be long before Caspian, at least, revived, and she kept glancing nervously back at their base. Seeing both Duncan and Methos reaching under the stairs to retrieve a pair of swords, she felt a resurgence of anger about being kept in the dark about the weapons. She opened her mouth to complain, but saw Duncan's eyes widen abruptly. Before she could turn to see what had captured his attention, Methos body-slammed her to the floor, and the stroke of Silas' ax barely missed her. 

"Silas, stop!" Methos remained on the floor as a protective drape over Cassandra. 

"I only wanted to help you, Methos!" boomed the big immortal, somehow managing to be plaintive and wounded even at that volume and with the enormous ax in his hands. 

"I'm sorry, Silas. I didn't want to hurt you, but I can't go back to that life. I'm not the man you used to ride with anymore!" Cassandra sensed his desperation to make the only Horseman for whom he'd ever felt real affection understand his actions. 

Silas shook his head sadly. "You've only lost your way, brother. We want to help you find it again." He eyed Duncan and Cassandra hatefully. "It's this lot's got you confused, turned you away from your path, from who you are." The ax began to rise... 

"Silas!" Methos stood and brandished his sword. Cassandra could see the reluctant resolve in his eyes. Duncan clearly saw it, too, and he stepped forward, putting his right shoulder between Methos and Silas. 

"Take her and find the other sword!" cried Duncan. "I'll deal with him." 

The oldest immortal hesitated, but there was relief in his face. With a last look at the huge man with the ax, he said regretfully, "Good-bye, Silas." 

"I'll see you soon, brother," growled Silas, aiming his ax toward the Scot. 

Methos grabbed Cassandra's hand and they dashed toward their base. Cassandra knew it was not a good time, but she couldn't seem to restrain herself. "Why didn't you tell me about the swords?" 

"You didn't seem able to handle any more information at the time." Methos never slowed, nor did he allow her to. "I was trying to protect you." They were twenty feet from the barrels. 

"By leaving me defenseless?" She shouted even knowing he could hear her at normal volume. 

"You were never defenseless. MacLeod had you in sight at all times." Ten feet now. 

"A lot of good that did. We'd both be dead if – " 

Methos whirled toward her, stopping, and let go of her hand. "I misjudged everything, all right, Cassandra? I thought I had the bases covered, and I was wrong. I put my friends at risk in a foolish plan, and we may all die because of it. I acknowledge fully and completely the breadth and depth of my folly. What else do you want from me?" 

They remained facing each other, not squared off for combat, but two people seeking to find the route to honest, essential communication, that there might be understanding between them once and for all. His final question echoed in her mind. What else _did_ she want from him...? 

"Look out!" she screamed, pulling him toward her as Caspian came over the low wall, sword in hand. He was a leering, lethal fiend, making cuts in the air with the blade before his feet even touched the floor. 

"Methos!" he said, making the name sound like an insult. "I'd take your head in a second, but Kronos wants you alive. So I'll be content with slicing through your pathetic heart before I gut your woman." Caspian's eyes glittered as he spoke. 

Armed with the sword, Methos pushed Cassandra behind him and adopted a ready stance. His face betrayed surprise when she edged around him and put her hand on the hilt, over his. 

"Let me have him," she said. His expression told her there was fire in her eyes, and the thought made her nerve endings tingle pleasantly. "You go find the other sword before Kronos wakes up." 

**********************  
Her eyes were those of a woman with new purpose, though he had no time to evaluate what had brought about this circumstance, or to argue with her. Releasing the hilt, Methos was obliged to dodge two of Caspian's vicious swipes while trying to find a way to get to the barrels. 

He feinted convincingly to his right, causing Caspian to over-commit, then pivoted and snaked around to his left. As he passed, he ducked with tremendous agility and avoided a lateral swipe, but Caspian's foot caught his ankle, bringing him thudding to the floor. 

I have _got_ to pay more attention to tripping, he thought. 

From his new, low vantage point, Methos was amazed to note that Caspian – now about to pin him to the floor with a vertical thrust – had actually turned his back to Cassandra. Didn't he realize she had the sword? As the blade descended toward him, seemingly in slow motion, but in reality too fast to avoid, it occurred to Methos that for Caspian, Cassandra was still the helpless slave, a human plaything that would be waiting timidly for him when he disabled Methos. 

The Horseman learned otherwise when her sword ably deflected the killing thrust meant for his brother. Methos allowed himself a small grin at Caspian's look of shock, his eyes and mouth all making O's on his face. He scrambled to his feet and headed for the barrels, leaving the two of them to their personal combat. 

The longsword had been thrown or kicked a few feet from the toppled barrels, but he found it just as the speakers went silent between songs. Into that stillness a cold, clear voice announced, "And now, the real game begins, brother." 

He turned quickly to face Kronos.


	21. Chapter TwentyOne

**_Chapter Twenty-One _**

"Well, _brother_," Methos threw all the scorn he felt into that one word. He shifted the sword to a more comfortable grip and prepared to engage Kronos. Hoping to use his greatest weapon, his wits, he opened his mouth to launch a verbal salvo. At that moment, the music began again, and the selection struck him momentarily dumb. 

"Sledgehammer?" Peter Gabriel seemed an abrupt departure from the previous songs. 

Kronos grinned as he used Methos' distraction to lunge; caught off guard, Methos parried desperately. Blades locked together, Kronos leaned in close to Methos' ear. 

"I liked the video," he purred. 

Methos shoved away and mentally added another tally to Kronos' side of the scorecard. The score was heavily weighted, and not in his favour. Once again he marvelled at how he had been outmanoeuvred. 

"You can't run forever," Kronos taunted as Methos backed away. 

Perhaps I have gotten soft, Methos mused. Regardless, it was time to start evening the score. 

****************** 

Duncan MacLeod was too consumed by his battle to notice anything but the fierce opponent in front of him. An initial miscalculation had almost cost him his head already, and Duncan refused to spare attention for anything but keeping that portion of his anatomy. 

Thinking to distract Silas long enough for Methos and Cassandra to slip away, Duncan had allowed the largest Horseman to back him into the small space beneath the catwalk stairs. The only thing that saved him was Silas' inability to swing his axe under the catwalk. 

"Come out, little man," Silas taunted Duncan over the sound of the music. "You will pay for turning my brother against me." 

"You know," Duncan yelled as Silas began trying to reach under the stairs with one hand, "I'm getting tired of being badmouthed by the _Three_ Horsemen of the Apocalypse." 

Sucking in a deep breath, Duncan barely avoided the grasping fingers that brushed his shirtfront. Sliding slightly to his left, he tried to aim a kick at the bigger man's knee, but the distance was too great. 

"All right," Duncan didn't even realize he was muttering aloud to himself, "can't go over him, can't go around him, gonna have to go through him." Shifting his sword to his left hand, he eased the bowie knife Methos had given him out of its sheath. 

************* 

It didn't take Caspian long to recover from his initial shock at Cassandra's blade deflecting his thrust at Methos. Spinning quickly, he knocked the sword aside and moved out of range of a killing thrust. 

"He must be good, that brother of mine, to inspire such devotion." The words oozed out of Caspian's mouth, sliding into the pseudo-silence of the speakerless base area. "Do you like the games he plays with you? I taught him those games, you know." 

The whole time Caspian spoke, he kept circling Cassandra, waiting for her guard to drop, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. Moving sideways, she edged closer to the break in the low wall around the base, not wanting to be trapped. 

"We could play, you and I …" Caspian trailed off with a suggestive leer as he suddenly lunged toward Cassandra, but there was no power to his thrust, and she deflected it easily. 

"You want to play?" Cassandra called out to Caspian in a singsong voice. "Then come play," she practically cooed, stilling the eager shaking in her hands as she eased her sword lower, leaving an opening that Caspian couldn't resist. 

Leaping forward, Caspian drove his sword toward Cassandra's left shoulder. Once again over-committed, he could not escape the arc of the nightstick that Cassandra levelled at his head. His sword sliced ineffectually at her shoulder as she twisted out of his way, almost dropping the sword she now held one handed. The blow she landed against his cheekbone was anything but ineffectual though; the crunching of bone echoed off the low wall as he staggered through the gap. 

Cassandra smiled as she gazed at the ruin that had been the left side of Caspian's face. "C'mon, you sick bastard, let's play." 

********* 

Gripping the bowie knife tightly in his hand, Duncan feinted right, giving the impression that he was seeking refuge further under the stairs again. As expected, Silas moved to block his progress. With a quick side step, Duncan ducked to his left. 

Diving toward the open floor, Duncan used the bowie knife to open Silas's forearm, gashing almost to the bone. The roar of pain that resulted was nearly enough to halt Duncan in his tracks, but he kept rolling, outdistancing the axe that swung for his head with incredible force, even wielded one-handed. 

Tossing the knife away, Duncan rose with sword in hand, ready to battle the man before him. He had just begun to wonder how much time the wound would buy him when the axe swung once again at Duncan's head. 

Relying on years of fighting skill, Duncan engaged his opponent. He attempted to parry each blow of the axe with the sword he now carried. Although not his usual katana, Duncan was familiar enough with most blades for the difference to be insignificant. 

It came as a shock then, for the blade to be ripped from his hands by the sheer power of Silas' stroke. Duncan saw the sword tumble and land several feet away as he scrambled to unsheathe the short sword strapped to his leg. 

Silas' booming laugh rang out when he saw Duncan's new weapon. "Ha, a little sword for a little man!" Still laughing, he redoubled his efforts to take Duncan's head. With a mighty swing, the axe connected directly with the short sword. The blade snapped off four inches above the guard. 

Duncan stared silently at the shattered sword in his hand, then shifted his gaze to the looming man in front of him. 

"Okay, blocking blows from an axe doesn't work. Time for something different." As he spoke, Duncan tossed the remains of the sword into Silas' face and scrambled for his longsword. 

************ 

Kronos and Methos continued to jockey for position. It was clear to Methos that Kronos did not wish to kill his "right-hand man," that he was banking on the other Horsemen killing MacLeod and Cassandra and with them, Methos' will to resist. The devious, old immortal was frantically creating, evaluating and discarding plans to take advantage of that fact. 

"We really don't have to do this, you know," he called out to Kronos, stalling. As the words left his mouth he winced at how like MacLeod he sounded. 

"Please, brother, spare me the trite commentary on how _unnecessary and distasteful_ this all is." Kronos didn't seem too impressed by Methos' words either. "You have known from the beginning that this could end only one of two ways. You join me … or you die." 

As he spoke the last words, Kronos struck. Sword flashing, he drove toward Methos' left side, seeking to score a quick hit to the shoulder or thigh, but Methos was prepared and fended off the attack handily. 

Regaining his balance, Methos risked a glance over at Cassandra. Kronos followed his gaze. 

"You've trained her well, brother. Perhaps we should keep her." The taunting note in Kronos' voice made Methos' skin crawl, but he refused to respond. Cassandra and MacLeod were fully capable of defending themselves, and he was responsible only for himself at this point. He knew that he would have to keep his head … if he wanted to keep his head. 

********* 

Cassandra felt her blood rushing through her body, and the power coursing through her arms. She felt strong and ready to defeat not just Caspian, but the ghosts of her past. Standing tall, she tossed the nightstick aside, grasped her sword tightly and waited for her foe to approach. 

Spitting blood, Caspian slowly straightened up. The look he turned on Cassandra would have felled many a lesser opponent. With a snarl of rage, he ran toward her, sword flashing in the dim lighting. 

For one moment, Cassandra was almost paralysed by fear. Her mind flashed back to the day the Horsemen had destroyed her village and her life. At the last second, a cool voice spoke in the back of her mind, reminding her she was no longer that scared girl. 

Twisting her upper body, she avoided the first onslaught of Caspian's rush. Spinning on her heel, she put her back to the base and brought her sword up to defend herself. The speed of Caspian's assault soon had her breathless, and she began to back away, hoping to buy some time. 

Caspian, once again sensing, shark-like, blood in the water, pressed his attack. Again and again he forced Cassandra to parry and block his strokes, making sure to avoid falling into a predictable pattern of attack. Just as the backs of her thighs met the wall behind her, he disarmed her, sending the bastard sword flying into the darkness eight feet beyond the wall. 

The sword clanged loudly in the silence as the pre-programmed music shifted once again. Placing his sword against Cassandra's throat, Caspian grinned as Def Leppard began to blare through the speakers. Licking his lips, he spoke loudly enough for Cassandra to hear him clearly. 

"Now we have some fun, sugar."


	22. Chapter TwentyTwo

**_Chapter Twenty-Two _**

Duncan MacLeod was not accustomed to being flat on his back, groping for a sword. His gasps sounded loud in his ears as he strained to reach the hilt of the sword, tantalizingly just out of reach under the bottom riser of the catwalk stairs. With a cry of triumph, he pulled the sword free barely in time to avoid the falling axe above him. 

Rolling desperately, Duncan crashed headlong into the low wall that ran parallel to the catwalk. Looking toward the stairs, he noted that Silas seemed to be having a problem removing the head of his axe from the floor. Duncan grinned a little, then wondered just how hard he had hit his head on the wall. 

Reaching up to rub the lump that had formed at the base of his skull, Duncan jumped when music poured out of the wall to his immediate left. While not a connoisseur of heavy metal music, Duncan had lived with Richie long enough to recognize some bands; but this one was unfamiliar. Duncan leaned back against the wall just as more words blared out of the speaker. 

"Pour some sugar on me, in the name of love. Pour some sugar on me, c'mon fire me up." 

Still absently rubbing his sore head, Duncan assumed he had discovered the name of the song and turned his attention back to Silas. Seeing that the Horseman had finally succeeded in freeing his axe, Duncan struggled to his feet, shrugging off questions about the music and focusing once again on his challenger. 

************ 

The edge of the wall ground into the small of Cassandra's back as Caspian pushed the sword against her throat. With his free hand, he groped her crudely, painfully, grinning with soulless eyes. She bit her lip and willed the tears that formed involuntarily not to fall, while slowly working her right hand along the wall and behind her back. 

"It appears I won't have the time I'd planned to take with you, slave," he hissed, spraying saliva on her face, "but I promise to make up for it in enthusiasm." The skin over his shattered cheekbone had healed, but she noted with satisfaction that the bone beneath was still grotesquely misshapen. As he leaned in to nuzzle and lick her as he'd done earlier – or maybe to bite her, she wasn't sure – she felt the pressure of the sword relax a little, and she let fly the hand holding the dagger. 

He felt her movement and saw the dagger just in time to duck. She missed him, but took advantage of his slight distance and imbalance to bring her left knee up to her chest and kick him in the abdomen. He staggered away a couple of steps, enough for her to transfer the dagger to her left hand and lean into and over the wall, backward. She landed with a graceful roll, as though she practiced it all the time. Rising quickly with the throwing knife now in her right hand, she launched it with cold precision as he prepared to follow her, and buried it deeply in his right shoulder. 

His scream brought a feral smile to her lips. Putting the dagger back into her waistband, she dashed nimbly to retrieve her bastard sword, six feet away. "Come on, you pig! What are you waiting for?" she taunted loudly, gesturing for him to come to her. Rage darkened his face as he pulled the knife free and started toward the wall, never losing eye contact with his quarry. 

************** 

Caspian's scream drew Kronos' eye to the combatants. Doubt flickered briefly across his face as he began to realize how he had underestimated Cassandra. Switching his attention back to Methos, he was just able to deflect the killing stroke aimed at his heart. 

"I thought you didn't want to hurt me, brother." He taunted Methos as he scrambled back over the discarded laser tag vests of MacLeod and Cassandra. 

"And I thought you might have outgrown your need to dominate and enslave," Methos answered. "Guess we were both wrong." 

Sword swinging, Methos fully engaged Kronos for the first time. Feeling anticipation rise in his chest, Kronos defended himself and looked for hints that Death was near the surface. Although Cassandra's presence had been a surprise, and her fighting ability an even greater one, Kronos was sure that he had misjudged nothing else. Loss and fear and pain would cause his brother to return to the fold; nothing would stop his plan. 

**********  
  
A small objective part of Cassandra marveled at how much she was enjoying this confrontation. Her heart was pumping hard and strong and steadily, she felt as though she could almost defy gravity, and she actually caught herself pulsing – almost dancing – briefly to the beat of the music. 

Caspian took his time joining her on the other side of the wall, partly, she knew, to give her time to think about what would happen when he got there, and partly to allow his shoulder time to heal. He needn't have bothered. She was already giving plenty of thought to what would happen, and she was pretty sure that his shoulder couldn't heal fast enough to prevent it. 

Caspian climbed the wall slowly, his grin back in place, but with a hint of a question mark behind it. Perhaps this was the first time he had encountered a victim who goaded him to come for her. Certainly, it was the first time he'd ever seen Cassandra behave in such a way. Perhaps, too, he was taken by the shock of recognition; Cassandra had the feeling that her face was reflecting a joyous glee at the thought of causing harm and pain that was similar to the expression he routinely wore during "play." 

************** 

Duncan gave a final shake of his head as Silas approached, axe carving lazy circles in the air. A slight grin graced his face as the larger man approached slowly. 

"I think you'll find me hard to kill," Duncan yelled over the sound of the music. "Remember, the bigger they come, the harder they fall." 

"You should have run away when you had your chance," Silas bellowed. "I like a good chase sometimes." 

"Nowhere to run," Duncan called back. 

"Fine. You can stand and die!" Silas finished crossing the distance to Duncan's position and began to wield the axe with purpose. Duncan, having finally learned from his earlier folly, dodged and waited for his opening. 

************* 

"I like a prey with spirit," Caspian said as he closed the distance between himself and Cassandra. "Breaking it makes the victory more enjoyable." 

"I know what you mean," she replied, matching his grin. "That's why I didn't take your head when I had the chance. Watching you bleed a little at a time will make your Quickening that much sweeter." 

Caspian's ever-present grin degraded into a mere baring of teeth at that, and he launched an enraged diagonal cutting stroke at her right shoulder, which she dodged. His injured shoulder was forcing him to use his left arm more than he liked, and his skill was markedly reduced. More cuts and thrusts followed, each of which she managed to evade without even using her own sword to block. 

It struck her suddenly that she had learned that from Methos, watching him spar with the other Horsemen or occasionally fight for sport with a captive in the camp. The key to his approach seemed to be to avoid, as much as possible, contact of any kind with the enemy's weapon, until he could see the opportunity to move in and strike. Without realizing it, she had internalized this practice, and her own fighting technique consisted more of avoidance tactics and exploiting her opponent's mistakes rather than of the clanging of steel and complex offensive maneuvers. 

Cassandra could see her enemy's growing frustration, and she prepared for the moment when he'd leave himself open. As he lunged toward her, she sidestepped and prepared to stab him in the side, but he surprised her by ducking down and sweeping her feet from under her with his blade. Glee flooding his eyes once more, Caspian threw himself upon her... and landed on the dagger she'd again taken from its hiding place. 

Another roar of pain escaped him, and Cassandra squirmed out from under him, giving the dagger a quarter-turn. He rolled onto his side with a screech, and she propped one foot against his ribcage for leverage and yanked the dagger from his midsection. He screamed again, and she laughed, a full-throated, guttural sound. With the grace of a dancer, she regained her feet and began to circle him, vulture-like.


	23. Chapter TwentyThree

**_Chapter Twenty-Three _**

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod decided that he did not like dodging. He wondered, as he ducked another broad swing of Silas' axe, if he was constitutionally incapable of avoiding a fight. Another part of his mind started chiding him about losing his focus during a fight, just as he backed into one of the pillars supporting the catwalk. 

Silas grinned as his target stopped moving abruptly. He lifted the axe and brought it down again in a huge chopping motion, the clear intent of which was to cleave his opponent in two, from left shoulder to right hip. And it would have worked, had Duncan not simply collapsed to the floor. 

Eschewing fancy ducks, dives and rolls, all of which would have put him within the arc of the axe, Duncan slid down the post to assume a prone position on the floor in front of Silas. As the Horseman followed through on his swing, Duncan raised the long sword into position above his torso. Silas' inertia, along with the razor sharp edge of the sword, did most of the work, and Duncan was soon splattered with warm blood from the deep slice across Silas' abdomen. 

*********** 

Kronos and Methos circled each other warily, neither willing to commit fully without first assessing his brother's new skills. Blades touched briefly and slipped away, never lingering too long or too hard. Feints were made and responded to, while eyes and minds noted the position of feet and hands. 

Methos noted a new wariness in his usually foolhardy brother. In the past, Kronos had been one to attack with rage and abandon, sure of his own skill and his ability to intimidate his opponent. That quality seemed lacking now. 

"What's the matter Kronos," he taunted, hoping to distract his opponent. "Afraid I've learned some new tricks? Worried I can beat you now?" Methos knew both men remembered how often he ended up on his bum in the sand when they sparred during their reign of terror. 

But Methos also knew that he had been just as guilty of relying on things other than his swordsmanship to guarantee victory during that period of his life. Kronos had been one of those things, just another of the tools he employed as a Horseman, like the masks and the make-up. 

"No, brother," Kronos' voice broke into Methos' thoughts. "I was simply debating whether to kill you quickly or slowly. Either way, I wouldn't want you to miss the fun when your _friends_ die, so I'll make sure you're up for that." Kronos' leer reminded Methos painfully of Caspian's past pursuits, and he shifted his focus briefly to the fight between two more of his tools, his former brother and his former slave.  
  
Over Kronos' shoulder, Methos could see them fighting fiercely in the base of Team Methos. Cassandra had the obvious upper hand, and Methos was torn between pride in her accomplishments, and disgust at how sharp an edge his tool held. Placing any self-contempt firmly behind a locked door in his mind, Methos determined to keep Kronos from noticing how badly Caspian was acquitting himself, giving Cassandra a chance to end things, once and for all. 

"Come _brother_," Methos cried, twirling his sword in imitation of one of MacLeod's showier moves, "let me show you what I've learned." 

******** 

"Get up!" Cassandra rasped, every nerve in her body quivering with stimulation. Caspian's slackened grip on the hilt of his sword tightened a little, and she slapped him viciously on the back with the flat of her sword. "I said get up, dog! Fight me on your feet, like the man you pretend to be!" She poked him with the tip of her sword, making small bloody gashes on his body and clothing. 

Caspian lurched to one knee, glaring blackly upward with his sword held loosely. He seemed to realize that the killing strike would not come until he was fully upright and on the attack. Cassandra watched his chaotic thoughts of violence and vengeance smoulder behind his eyes. 

"You've lost something over the centuries, Caspian," she chuckled, strutting before him, flaunting herself. "You never would have let yourself be taken down by a woman two thousand years ago." 

"I'll taste you yet, b*tch," Caspian growled. 

"Big talk from a man who can't even stand up," she shouted derisively. She turned her back to him and peered over the low wall as though to retrieve something. Her awareness was heightened by adrenaline, by excitement, by unadulterated joy, and she waited until she sensed he was about six feet away before she risked a look back. He was charging, sword as high over his head as he could manage with the partially healed shoulder and the fresh belly wound. 

She collapsed sideways onto the edge of the wall as though cowering; then as he swung his sword with diminished speed and strength, she rolled away, avoiding the cut. Pulling her legs up and balancing on the edge of the wall, she thrust both feet hard into his pelvis, sending him flying backward. Caspian did not fall, but stood doubled over several feet away. Rolling smoothly off the wall, Cassandra ran toward him. He brandished his sword feebly, and one stroke of hers tore it from his hand. She launched a brutal kick at his knee, feeling the kneecap slide far out of place, and brought the hilt of her weapon down on the top of his head as collapsed to the other knee, howling. 

************ 

Duncan rolled quickly out of the path of a collapsing Silas. He had a brief moment's panic as he bumped the pillar, but his years of martial arts training kept him calm enough to continue his move out of harm's way. 

The abdominal wound he had inflicted on Silas was both deep and long. It bisected the larger man, and he fell to one knee, trying to hold his intestines in with one hand, while he attempted to maintain a grasp on his axe with the other. His pain was evident only in the gasps he let out, gasps that echoed loudly as the music stopped once again. 

"You were a worthy opponent," Duncan said as he moved cautiously around Silas, staying out of range of the axe. His sword licked out, stroking Silas' arm, and the axe fell to the floor. 

**************** 

The floodgates of Cassandra's rage were now flung wide, and she was beating Caspian with her sword, both with the flat and the edges. She struck at his arms, his back, his legs, each blow feeding her rage. She varied her attack occasionally with shallow pokes with the tip, seeking not to cause death but only pain, infinite pain. It seemed to her the most enjoyable thing she had ever indulged in, and she reveled in the agony she saw in his eyes, and in the hate and fear as well. 

Her hacking and stabbing escalated until she heard Methos' voice stern in her ear. "Cassandra, finish it!" 

************  
Methos took advantage of Kronos' obvious desire to prolong their fight until the other Horsemen could defeat his team mates. His brother's intent to keep Methos alive and able to watch their deaths allowed the wily immortal to appear fully engaged while subtly choreographing the fight to keep Kronos' back to the confrontation between Cassandra and Caspian. 

However, the longer that confrontation went on, the more obvious his ploy was becoming. He knew Cassandra had taken Caspian down; what the devil was keeping that Quickening? Risking a glance, Methos was stunned to see Cassandra strutting and gloating over Caspian, torturing him jubilantly, but avoiding the killing strike. 

Irritation swelled within him – didn't she understand that this was not a game; that all their lives were at stake? But a second glance brought a darker worry. By the look on her face, the torture she was inflicting was inspiring joy in Cassandra, and she was surrendering herself to that joy wholeheartedly. Whatever seething black pit had spawned a man like Caspian, Cassandra now stood at its edge, teetering. 

Methos struck at Kronos, allowing him to turn away in the follow-through and hide his face momentarily. "Cassandra," he said with as much command as he could muster, "finish it!" 

There was no time to say more. He hoped she would heed him before it was too late. 

***************** 

Pausing, Cassandra turned her head toward where Methos and Kronos were engaged. He met her eyes only briefly as he fought his battle, but the recess from the assault on Caspian was enough to bring home Methos' point. Her rage, useful – even indispensable – for a time, was beginning to consume her. Fighting fire with fire was one thing; becoming the fire itself was quite another. 

Looking down on the beaten and whimpering Caspian, Cassandra realized it was time to extinguish this flame. 

She raised the blade over her head and sliced cleanly and quickly through his neck. 

*****************  
"Keep thinking you have won, little man." The words ground out between gasps as Silas swayed on one knee before Duncan. "My brothers will avenge me, if you even manage to kill me." Duncan looked on, disbelieving, as Silas threw back his head and laughed, then lurched to his feet. 

Duncan stepped back, raising his sword protectively in front of him, preparing himself to deliver the killing strike. Then both men felt and heard the difference in the room. This hush had nothing to do with music, and everything to do with the energy they could suddenly taste like ozone before a thunderstorm. As they stilled, the first flash of lightning split the air of the arena. 

**************** 

Cassandra threw back her head and allowed the energy to pour into her. The light and the power pooled around her, glowing like a nimbus around a sun. Her hair began to move and crackle as if it had a life of its own, lifting off her scalp and stretching toward the energy that engulfed her form. 

Kronos and Methos, standing not thirty feet away from the tempest, were thrown to the floor when the first bolts of lightning started to cascade around the room. Both had to duck as the base, which had begun by hanging ten feet behind Cassandra, went flying past them to crash into the shadows across the room. 

Meanwhile, Cassandra's arms were flung out, as if to embrace the life force flowing out of Caspian, and into her. Although her face was cast in a tight grimace, laughter soared out of her open mouth. Methos shivered to hear echoes of Caspian in that laughter, and wondered if they were a result of the Quickening, or of the cat and mouse game that preceded it? 

As the Quickening gained strength, all the speakers in the room began to explode, electronic parts showering outward from their hidden recesses. After the speakers, the lights began to blow out. Thankfully some of them were sodium arc bulbs, and they seemed to avoid the worst of the damage, leaving at least some light to see by. 

At the end, one last surge of energy struck the catwalk. Methos, lying on the ground mere feet away from the structure, heard bolts snapping under the strain, and then creaking as the metal moved away from the wall. He rolled desperately to avoid the falling metal while listening to Cassandra's cries through his earpiece. 

Rising quickly, Methos spotted Kronos circling to get behind Cassandra; a Cassandra who was too busy collapsing to the floor to be able to do anything to stop him. Even in the dim lighting, Methos could see the lustful glare that suffused Kronos' face, teeth flashing in a predatory snarl. Vaulting the remains of the catwalk, Methos sprinted across the base area and stepped between Cassandra and Kronos. 

"Not this time, brother," he hissed, levelling his sword at Kronos. "This time, you fight me."


	24. Chapter TwentyFour

**_Chapter Twenty-Four _**

The last fading blasts of the Quickening echoed through Laserocity like the wake of a powerboat on a calm lake, each blast lapping against the walls and diminishing in frequency. Duncan stood breathless, sword in hand, as he tried to split his attention between the residual Quickening activity and the foe before him. The darkness enveloped Silas, but Duncan could barely see light glinting in the other man's eyes. 

"So, little man," the voice boomed out of the shadows, making Duncan start, "I would say Methos' woman is dead." The gasps, which had been so prominent moments before, were much less featured now. "And you are going to be next." 

Duncan frantically pushed his earpiece further into his ear, hoping to hear something, anything, that would contradict Silas' words, but there was nothing, not even static. While the reasoning part of him noted the lack of electronic capability in the building as a whole, post-Quickening, the fearful part of him noted only the silence of his two friends. 

"Cassandra is not Methos' woman." The words slid from Duncan's mouth automatically as he backed two cautious steps away from Silas, still craning for any sound from the other end of the hall. 

"Ah, so she is yours now," comprehension sounded loudly in Silas' tone. "Why did you let her fight and die for you, little man?" The question did not quite cover the sound of Silas retrieving his axe from the floor. 

"What makes you so sure _she_ is the one who died?" As he spoke, Duncan tightened his grip on both his sword, and his hope. "I think it's just as likely that one of your _brothers_ is the headless corpse right now." 

As Silas laughed heartily at that idea, Duncan reluctantly acknowledged his own fear about whose Quickening had just played out. Despite his words, he was well aware that the death could easily have been Cassandra's… or Methos'. He was hard-pressed at the moment to judge whose loss he would feel more deeply. 

Seeing his shadowy opponent beginning to approach, Duncan glanced over each shoulder quickly to discern the best route toward his team's base. He had to find a way to get there, had to find out…  
  
************** 

Cassandra huddled on the floor, vaguely aware of the drama being played out above her. Seconds before, Kronos had been about to take her head, and she'd had no strength to prevent it. More disturbing still, she wasn't sure she was inclined to prevent it, even if she'd had full vigor. Her emotions were in total disarray. 

Methos' intervention settled the matter, for the moment. She stared up at him distantly, unable to determine how she felt, as he came to her defense against Kronos after two thousand long years. Better late than never, she thought, and would have laughed rather hysterically if she'd possessed the strength. 

Kronos grinned contemptuously at Methos. The loss of Caspian – and thus of his dream of the resurgence of the Four Horsemen – was clearly an epic disappointment, instantly converted into hatred and a demand for retribution. His first target had logically been Cassandra, but now, she could see, he was happy to direct his rage at his prodigal, troublesome brother. 

"So, Methos, you think you can make up for letting her down all those centuries ago by saving her from me now, hmm?" When Methos said nothing, Kronos' volume increased as he warmed to the subject. "It doesn't work that way, you know. She'll never forgive you. Why should she? The poor unlucky wench wouldn't even be in _this_ predicament if it weren't for you." 

"It won't work, Kronos," Methos said, his voice and his sword equally steady. "It was never about her, not for you; it was always about finding a way to stand on my neck, to keep me in line. Well, I'm _out_ of line now, for good. I'm done being played." 

Cassandra saw the subtle hardening and sharpening in Kronos' eyes as his smile faded. 

"That suits me," he said as he poised to attack, "because I'm done playing." 

*************** 

Hearing Kronos' voice but unable to make out the words, Duncan began to back away from Silas quickly but carefully, working his way toward the base. 

"Where are you going?" Silas boomed, his belly wound healed or close to it. "You said it yourself, little man: There's nowhere to run." 

Gritting his teeth, Duncan observed privately that the "little man" epithet was beginning to grate on his nerves. "Who's running? I'm just taking a constitutional while you get your wind back." 

The breeze from a sudden stroke of the ax stirred some of Duncan's many loose strands of hair. He hastened his backward progress even though he dared not take his eyes off the large immortal. 

His left shoulder struck the side of a barrier, and Silas used the sudden cessation of motion to take another swing. There was no way to escape the ax's arc. Scraping his back against the edge of the barrier, Duncan stepped back with his right foot to gain leverage and brought the sword upward. Blocking Silas' swing with tremendous effort, the Scot was taken aback by the sheer power of his opponent even though he had known what to expect. He couldn't repel the swing entirely, but merely deflected it, barely preventing its edge from striking him. 

This was no good. Duncan needed a clear, open fighting area as much as he needed to know whether his friends were safe, and backing up blindly was perilous. There was only one way to get to the base alive. 

Duncan MacLeod turned and ran. 

***************** 

Kronos' attack was full-throttle, brutal, passionate – much more in the style Methos remembered, yet subtly different. There was a wariness, a _thoughtfulness_ that hadn't been present two thousand years ago. The oldest immortal spared a split second to wonder if his influence was responsible for that. 

His opponent's eyes betrayed similar notations of changes in his fighting style as they exchanged formidable lunges, levelled lethal cutting swipes, ducked and dodged, blocked and beat on one another. 

"So, you haven't entirely forgotten how to fight," Kronos said, breathing hard but radiating excitement and pleasure. "I thought you might have left that knowledge behind, along with the rest of your manhood. There may be hope for you yet, brother." He was obliged to duck abruptly during this last sentence as Methos' sword made a vicious lateral cut at his head. 

"What I left behind was taking pleasure in the pain and domination of others," Methos countered after the follow-through. The two began circling in a dance-like motion. "It's called personal development, Kronos. You should try it sometime." 

"The weak are meant to be plundered by the powerful, Methos. That law of nature hasn't changed since the world was new. To deny that is to deny yourself." With those words, Kronos swung his sword upward in a quick disembowelling stroke that Methos barely avoided. 

Pressing his momentary advantage, Kronos rained a series of short, sharp blows on Methos' sword. Methos defended, mentally cursing as he stumbled over the detritus of the battle and subsequent Quickening. He was determined to lead Kronos away from the vulnerable Cassandra, but backward movement and broken terrain left him at a subtle disadvantage when confronted by Kronos' sure two-handed swings. 

Eventually, there was a brief lag between Kronos' swing and Methos' block. The broadsword slid inside the steel web Methos had woven around himself, and scored a deep slice across Methos' left shoulder. Both men heard Cassandra gasp as Methos flinched in pain. 

************* 

Duncan ran cautiously toward the base, dodging poorly defined obstacles in the shadowy darkness. As he ran, he wondered when he had internalized the old man's mantra of "Live, grow stronger, fight another day." He also wondered if he would find the old man with head still attached at the end of this strategic retreat. 

The closer he got to the base, the clearer the sounds of voices and clashing steel. Absently noting the destruction of one end of the catwalk, Duncan steered toward the low wall that surrounded the base. No longer sure of the location of the break in the wall, Duncan hurdled it like an Olympian, going for gold. What he saw both brought him relief, and brought him up short. 

Cassandra lay in a heap on the floor next to Caspian's decapitated corpse. She was obviously still recovering from the effects of an ancient Quickening, and was even more obviously enthralled by that which had brought him up short: Kronos and Methos were engaged in a duel of spellbinding and lethal intensity, displaying an array of skills and tricks that Duncan had never before seen the old man use, nor even gotten an inkling of. 

All three immortals were locked into a closed circle that did not even deign to notice Duncan's arrival. 

As Duncan watched the fight, he immediately understood both the reason for Methos' strategy of backward motion and the disadvantage it put him at against the advancing Kronos. But he also noted the instinctive way Methos compensated for the drawbacks. He admired the skill shown in throwing up the defensive web, and admitted to himself that he didn't even recognize some of the moves Methos was using. 

The revelation of these hidden depths of proficiency struck Duncan like a bolt from a particularly focused Quickening. How could he have possibly underestimated his friend's fighting abilities so severely? How could he have never even guessed at what lay beneath that carefully manufactured and guarded façade? 

"Damn," Duncan breathed out, pole-axed. "You were right, old man." Although Methos could not hear the words, Duncan felt compelled to say them aloud in a self-imposed gesture of atonement. "I didn't want to see _you_, I wanted to see Adam Pierson." 

Just as Duncan had his epiphany, Kronos slipped inside Methos' guard. Cassandra gasped, everyone froze, and the nearly-forgotten Silas walked through the gap in the low wall surrounding the base.


	25. Chapter TwentyFive

**_Chapter Twenty-five _**

Duncan roused himself sufficiently to turn around, facing Silas while keeping an eye on the Kronos-Methos confrontation. As he watched with his attention thus divided, Methos backed away from his opponent carefully and watchfully, favoring the injured left shoulder. 

Silas' face betrayed deep disappointment at seeing his brothers at odds in a life-or-death conflict. Kronos launched a brutal new offensive to take advantage of having drawn first blood, and Duncan clearly read anguish in Silas' expression at seeing his favorite brother in such a perilous position. Then he turned toward the Scot, raising his ax. 

"You could help him," Duncan said suddenly. "You don't want Methos to die, Silas. Neither do I. We could help him." 

Both men glanced back to the raging battle, noting Methos' struggle to defend himself mostly one-handed with a heavy two-handed sword. Silas' gaze returned to Duncan, and there was no ambivalence in it. 

"I would rather see him dead than living with his back turned to his destiny," bellowed the huge man. The ax descended, intent on parting the Highlander's hair down to his knees. 

********************  
Beginning to feel marginally less lethargic, Cassandra crawled toward the outer wall, trying to stay out of the way of both battles while she continued to recover from Caspian's Quickening – but trying to keep both fights within her sight. She couldn't do anything to physically aid her teammates, but perhaps she could assist them by keeping close watch. 

She was unsure about whom she should be most concerned. Methos was severely hampered by his currently useless left shoulder and was thus extremely vulnerable to Kronos' relentless attack. But her former master had five thousand years of survival on his side, and he had sparred with this opponent many times, had fought alongside him for years. 

Duncan was, by virtue of his comparative youth, the least experienced of the four combatants, was clearly outmatched in physical strength, and had never even met Silas until a couple of hours ago. Yet he had grown up a warrior, was highly trained and disciplined in his skills, and possessed the limitless zeal of a man armed with honor and loyalty. 

It was clear to her that each battle could go either way, which was why she had dragged her sword with her as she crawled over to the wall. If both her teammates won – or if both of them lost – nothing further would be required of her. She would leave alive with Duncan and Methos in the first case, and suffer then die in the second. 

But if one of the Horsemen killed one of her teammates while the other pair still fought, it would fall to her to take the victor's head while he was still weak from the Quickening, to prevent him from teaming up against her remaining comrade. 

Cassandra leaned back against the wall, watching, waiting… and regaining her strength. 

******************* 

Methos knew he was at a serious disadvantage in this contest. Struggling backward while trying to keep his footing was bad enough, but the difficulty of defending one-armed against Kronos' strong two-handed swings was wearing. The itchy tingling he could feel in his shoulder signified that healing was taking place, but it wasn't happening quickly enough. 

Trying to stretch his fingers surreptitiously, he glanced across the area to check on Cassandra, and finally noted the presence of Duncan MacLeod and Silas. Although the head on his shoulders signified that he was holding his own with Silas, MacLeod had the look of a man feeling a bit overwhelmed by his opponent. Methos found his attention drawn once again by a vicious swipe from Kronos' sword. Resigning MacLeod to his fate, Methos began evaluating his options. 

"I see you have finally noticed our audience, brother." Kronos sounded both smug and slightly breathless as he taunted Methos. 

"I don't think they're just here to watch," Methos riposted. He noted that Kronos was tiring a bit, but alas, like the healing of his own shoulder, it was not quick enough. Shifting his gaze around almost frantically, Methos' eyes lit on the low barrier around the base. 

Dropping his defense for a split second, Methos bounded for the low wall. Unknowingly mimicking Duncan's earlier move, he sprang upward, but instead of clearing the wall, he landed effortlessly atop it like a cat. 

Kronos stood still for a moment, shocked. "What is this, brother, your Errol Flynn impersonation?" 

"Actually, I think it's more along the lines of Douglas Fairbanks." Methos delighted in the inanity of the chatter; it provided more time for his injury to heal. Cautiously finding his footing, he beckoned Kronos forward with his sword. 

"Care to join me _brother_?" It was clear that neither the tone nor the invitation could be ignored. 

****************** 

Successfully dodging Silas' latest attempt to cleave him in half, Duncan was desperately aware that he was in need of a new battle plan. He couldn't win in the long run merely by ducking, diving, and running. It was far more likely he would tire and make a fatal mistake before he ever got a lucky opening. 

Jumping with both feet to avoid a sweep of the ax just below his knees, he cursed yet again the enormous reach that the ax afforded his gigantic opponent – and stopped in mid-thought as another part of his mind interrupted impatiently with a suggestion. The idea was so simple and obvious, he wanted to laugh. 

Silas' vast ax-range was only effective if one sought to stay _outside_ of it. Within its circumference, the giant immortal was extremely vulnerable. The trick, of course, was to get inside – no small feat, certainly – but once there… 

The Highlander's shoulders squared up and his eyes glinted as the beginnings of a workable plan began to gel. 

********************** 

With a low snarl, Kronos leapt to the wall, only to be met immediately by a crashing swipe from Methos' sword. Spinning to meet the thrust, Kronos overbalanced precariously, and Methos scored a quick hit to his right thigh. 

Pressing forward to make the most of his limited success, Methos swung again, a forehand blow this time. The tip of the blade whistled through the air just short of Kronos' chest, but Methos was himself almost unbalanced by the follow-through. Catching himself just before plummeting off the wall, he noted that feeling had returned to his left arm. 

Raising his left hand to the hilt of his sword, Methos prepared to overwhelm Kronos with a volley of well-placed blows. Raising the sword, he shifted forward to bring the blade down in a heavy, torso splitting stroke. Suddenly, Kronos' blade appeared to block the stroke. Swinging back powerfully, Kronos laughed at the quick look of confusion that crossed Methos' face. 

"It takes more than a little cut on the leg to stop me, brother. If that's all you have, then this fight will soon be ended." 

***********************  
Duncan was baiting Silas, tempting him by hovering just within ax-range. The idea was to get him to commit fully to a good, hard swing, avoid being hit, then take advantage of the big man's momentary down-time during the follow-through to enter the circle the ax's reach drew around Silas. 

In theory, quite simple. In practice, nearly suicidal. 

Halting his methodical assault briefly, Silas grinned and rumbled with mirth. "Do you _want_ to be struck down, little man? I am happy for the sport, but the evasion must be tiring. Stand still and let me give you the rest you crave." 

"You compassion is touching," Duncan tried not to pant, "but I'm just trying to make up for skipping my workout this morning. Just a little while longer, and then I'll be ready to finish you off." 

His opponent chuckled some more as he reset the grip on his ax, and it struck Duncan that Methos' obvious affection for Silas was no longer the enigma it had been an hour or two ago. Under other circumstances, Duncan would probably like the man, himself. 

He was obliged to drop to the floor as the ax whistled past his ear. 

*********************** 

"If that's all you have, then this fight will soon be ended." 

Methos set his shoulders, unconsciously rolling the left one a little as he did. While he was firmly of the opinion that you should never show your opponent all your moves, he was clearly going to have to dig a little deeper to defeat Kronos. 

"You know me better than that, Kronos. I've only used the level of skill I thought you merited, after all." Psychological warfare was never far from the top of Methos' bag of tricks, and he was sure he would be calling on more of those tricks soon. 

Setting his feet squarely on the wall, Methos shifted fighting styles rapidly. Gone was the hack and slash method often favoured by combatants with heavy two-handed swords. Instead, he presented Kronos with rapid cuts and darting blows more common to fighting with rapiers, or other lighter weapons. 

"What's this," Kronos jibed, "you fight me like a woman now?" 

"No, I fight you with speed and skill, a combination you might not be familiar with." As Methos scored the verbal blow, so he scored a slight hit to Kronos' right arm. This was followed up with another quick cut to left shoulder. 

"Owed you that one, brother," Methos noted with almost clinical detachment. Part of him knew that he couldn't maintain this style indefinitely with a heavy blade, but it seemed to be working for now. His superior balance, combined with the speed of his thrusts and cuts, was keeping Kronos on the defensive, but for how long? 

His question was answered as Kronos' patience finally snapped. With a roar, the smaller man launched himself at Methos. Both fell from the wall in a tangle of arms and legs and swords. Scrambling apart, both rose to their feet as Silas and Duncan MacLeod stood frozen, not ten feet away. 

******************** 

The four of them stood like actors awaiting their blocking, breathing heavily. Then Methos and Kronos began, almost imperceptibly, to slowly circle each other again, as though unable to tolerate a lack of some kind of motion. Silas and Duncan remained rooted, fascinated, almost hypnotized. 

Kronos, obviously smarting from his inability to defeat Methos on his brother's terms, wore a scowl terrifying in its intensity. "Silas, why is MacLeod still wearing his head?" he barked, startling his brother. 

"Wait," Duncan quipped, "don't tell me. I know this one…" 

Stung by the implied criticism, Silas also put on a scowl and wrapped his resolve to satisfy Kronos around him like a heavy fur coat. Duncan returned his full attention to his own conflict. 

Still circling, Kronos snarled at his opponent. "It's past time I finished with you too, brother, once and for all. Like a well-used slave, your company has become unsatisfying." 

"Well, it's hard to keep the excitement alive after two thousand years." The glib reply came automatically, belying the grim thoughts running through Methos' mind. It was indeed time to finish things here, and he was forced to admit that it was also time to discard the rule about hiding his true skill. Kronos was channeling all his anger, all his disappointment, all his frustration, into this fight. He wouldn't be beaten, no matter how badly injured, until one of them was dead. 

Very well, thought the old immortal. No more holding back, then. 

The circle began to spin faster.


	26. Chapter TwentySix

**_Chapter Twenty-six _**

With Kronos' rebuke still ringing in his ears, Silas felt his emotions shifting, slowly and gratingly, like interior tectonic plates. Anger which had merely smoldered quietly now began to flame up, building in heat and intensity and scorching his heart and mind. 

The dream was dead. Caspian was gone, but that was of no real consequence; he had been negligible in the large man's reckoning. But Silas had been certain that Methos would come around in the end; that he would fall to Kronos and revive as their brother once more. Now it was clear that that battle would only end with the loss of a head. No matter the outcome, Silas would never ride with Methos again. 

Needing a target for his grief and anger, Silas focused all his concentration on the young immortal he held responsible for the corruption of his favorite brother. The ax had swung purposefully before, but now it was powered by rage. 

********************* 

Kronos and Methos circled one another in an ever-quickening spiral. With cat-like stealth, they placed their feet surely on the debris-strewn floor, the tips of their long blades dipping and diving in a complicated pattern of range testing and readiness. 

Methos cast his mind back over five thousand years of tactics and strategies. There must be something that would be perfect for this situation. He evaluated and discarded several ideas quickly based on his knowledge of Kronos' strengths and weaknesses. 

Relying once again on speed and skill, Methos went on the attack. Feinting to his left, he quickly turned and struck at Kronos' left side, but the leather jacket absorbed most of the blow. Carrying his slight advantage forward, he changed his angle of attack and slashed his sword at his opponent's right thigh. 

As Methos continued with his rapid slashing attack, he knew it could only last for so long. While keeping Kronos on the defensive minimized the number of hits he took himself, it was also very tiring, and Kronos was blocking many of the blows now. Soon the strategy would have to change. 

********************* 

The brilliant plan to stay within ax-range until he could make his move was really working out – for Silas. Within five minutes of resuming their fight, Duncan was feeling winded from all the avoidance. He saw clearly the change in his opponent's mood and attitude. Until now, the big man had been almost toying with him. Now, he was determined to get a head. Duncan, on the other hand, had all he could do to concentrate on keeping his. 

A tiny misjudgment in maneuvering resulted in the ax striking Duncan's left bicep and his chest. His quick reflexes caused him to pull back enough to prevent lethal or disabling damage, but the pain wrung a yell from him and made him hunch over protectively. The chest wound was superficial, but the cut on the arm was down to the bone. 

Grinning, Silas swung the ax laterally, trying to catch Duncan in the midsection. The Highlander blocked it with the sword, which was caught on the head of the ax and went sailing a few feet away. Silas twisted as the momentum of his follow-through carried him and the ax around in an arc. Vulnerable, bleeding, Duncan was dismayed to realize that his opportunity to enter the ax's circumference was finally here… and he was weaponless. 

********************** 

Just as quickly as Methos' attack had started, it stopped. Kronos eyed his brother warily, waiting for the next trick. Taking a good look at his opponent, however, reassured him. The heaving chest and flushed face were those of a man who hadn't been forced to _truly_ fight for his life in some time. 

"What's wrong, brother?" he taunted. "Not only have you lost your taste for fighting, you've lost your ability. I'm disappointed in you, Methos. Somehow I expected more." 

Moving with deceptive grace, Kronos swung his huge sword in a descending arc, trying to disable his opponent. Surprisingly, Methos blocked the blow squarely with his sword, catching Kronos' blade in the guard and letting momentum draw the two men close together. 

"Never fear, Kronos," Methos returned the jibe, "I've got plenty more." Before Kronos could respond, Methos used his leverage to drive the pommel of his sword into Kronos' face. Feeling the blood drip from his shattered nose, Kronos tightened his grip on his sword and started swinging. 

*********************** 

Heart racing, Duncan suddenly realized he was _not_ weaponless. Remembering the hatchet Methos had given him, the Scot reached back to where he had secreted it, hit the floor rolling under the ax-line, and swept his right leg around to take Silas' feet out from under him. The huge immortal came down with a crash. 

Duncan threw himself upon Silas, but the ax was still in the bigger man's hands. The head of it was useless at this range, but he employed the handle to block Duncan's approach, keeping him far enough away that the hatchet was nearly useless too, able to make only small nicks. 

Hand-to-hand combat with a half-severed left arm put Duncan at a serious disadvantage, and soon Silas had turned the tables, putting Duncan on the bottom with the ax handle crushing his throat. His vision beginning to fade with the lack of air intake, Duncan still had time to note the joy, the glee Silas displayed as he sensed the kill was at hand. Gone was the jovial giant he had begun to see and even to like. This man was a brutish thug who enjoyed killing, who lived for mayhem, who took pleasure in causing extreme suffering. 

He didn't see Cassandra until she had wrapped her arms around Silas' neck to pull him off. For a brief moment, the Horseman took one hand off the ax handle long enough to backhand her savagely in the face with his huge fist. 

*************************** 

As Methos scrambled to avoid another blow from Kronos' sword, he wondered if he had miscalculated. Angering Kronos could be counted on to produce a strong offensive, but Methos had hoped it would tire Kronos more quickly. Silently rethinking his estimate of Kronos' physical reserves, Methos shifted tactics yet again. 

Biding his time, dodging blows instead of blocking them, Methos waited for the small openings Kronos left in his defenses. Each time an opening appeared, he lunged forward and thrust his sword into the target. Though none of the blows were fatal, he hoped their cumulative effect would wear his opponent down. 

"What now, brother, are you trying to turn me into a pin cushion?" Kronos asked. Redoubling his efforts, he wove a tighter defensive web around himself, leaving Methos fewer openings. With another slight shift, Kronos put his back to the wall of the base. 

Sensing that the opportunity to defeat Kronos was passing him by, Methos concentrated his efforts on scoring a deep hit to a vital area. If he could just skewer Kronos, the fight would be over. Seeing his chance, he lunged forward, putting all his considerable strength into the thrust. 

Methos saw the trap as Kronos easily sidestepped his thrust, but it was too late. His blade plunged into the remains of the speaker box, making contact with the electrical wiring that Caspian's Quickening had exposed. Live current flowed up the sword, and through Methos' hands that were pressed against the guard, sending his nerve endings dancing. 

A final surge of power threw Methos away from the sword as the box short-circuited. The sword itself seemed fused with the wall, but Methos didn't notice as he staggered back a few steps. Kronos, now feeling assured of his victory, followed. 

*************************** 

Anger seethed inside Duncan as Silas viciously struck Cassandra, bringing with it a burst of energy and the realization that Silas was now close enough to be hurt by the hatchet. Closing his right hand in a fist around its handle, Duncan brought the hatchet up as hard as he could, catching Silas in the neck. 

Roaring, Silas released the Scot as he tumbled backward to avoid another hit. Coughing and wheezing through a throat that was no longer flattened, Duncan sought frantically to stay within the ax-circumference as Silas continued to roll and shuffle away. Diving toward him, Duncan flung another wild hatchet-slice, this time cutting into Silas' side deeply. With another roar, Silas gave him an affronted look, as though he had no right to be making headway in this fight. 

Silas' look of outrage and the sense of entitlement it implied lit the fuse on the small bomb of fury that had been slowly assembling itself within Duncan. He suddenly realized he was tired. Tired of being handicapped by his own rules and sense of honor. Tired of fighting with people for whom honor was a joke and rules applied only to others. Tired of struggling to make sense of a world without order, to be righteous when what was right was never clear enough, to define justice when everybody lived by the motto, "Nobody said life was fair." 

Silas was trying to back up so that he could use the ax, but Duncan kept close. Another swing of the hatchet slashed into the arm flung up defensively. The next sliced open the gut, spilling a large amount of blood at their feet. Duncan swung again and again until he was simply pounding on Silas with the hatchet's blade, putting into each stroke all the angst and frustration he'd felt this past week dealing with the revelations about Methos and the Horsemen, making Silas pay for his pain. 

In his haste to put distance between them, Silas slipped on his own blood and fell. He tried to crawl away, but Duncan dropped to his knees beside him, still chopping. Blood spattered his face, soaked his clothes, made his grip on the hatchet handle slippery, but still he kept pounding. 

************************** 

Methos dropped to one knee, still shaking from the burst of electricity that had coursed through him… and swordless. Kronos loomed over him, ready to deliver the killing blow, but hesitating. 

"It pains me to do this Methos," he said slowly. "I had hoped for something different." 

"Wait," Methos shot back, stealthily reaching for the dagger in his boot, "let me guess, this is gonna hurt you more than it hurts me, right?" 

"Ah, brother," Kronos shook his head sadly, "it is not just your skill, but also your wit that has deserted you. Perhaps this is for the best." 

Kronos began to raise his sword for the final swing. Finally securing his grip on the dagger, Methos launched himself upward, bringing the dagger around in an arc across Kronos' forearms. The keen blade bit deep, slicing the right arm to the bone, and inflicting a deep gash to the left. With a scream of rage and pain, Kronos dropped his sword. 

Reversing his grip on the dagger, Methos swung low to sever Kronos' femoral artery. Gushing blood from his various wounds, Kronos dropped to his knees. Methos bent slowly and retrieved Kronos' enormous sword. Standing again, Methos gripped the weapon, readying himself to end this chapter of his long existence. 

"You were right about one thing, Kronos. This _is_ for the best." So saying, Methos brought the blade around and severed his brother's head. He straightened and prepared to receive the blessing and the bane of Kronos' Quickening. 

*************************** 

Only when he saw that Silas was no longer defending himself, no longer moving or breathing, did he think about taking the head. Duncan never even glanced at the sword. The use of the hatchet felt so satisfying, he simply started hacking with it at Silas' neck. 

Three, four chops were all it took given the force he was using. As Silas' head fell away, Duncan looked up in time to see Methos behead Kronos. In the brief moment of calm after the heads were severed, Duncan panted and began to actually think about what he had just done and, more importantly, how he had done it. A small whimper caught his attention, and he saw in Cassandra's face a kind of horror, as though she had just seen him grow a new and unpleasing face. He began to react to it, but the Quickening was now beginning, and it occurred to him abruptly that two ancient Quickenings occurring simultaneously might actually be dangerous. 

He leaped to his feet in a panic, but realizing there was no escape from the consequences, he simply stretched his arms out, as though in penitence, and waited. On the other side of the base, Methos did the same.


	27. Chapter TwentySeven

**_Chapter Twenty-seven _**

The Quickenings began, as most Quickenings do, with a quiet hush and a gathering of light and energy. Methos, veteran of thousands of years of Quickenings, tried to relax his tense, tired muscles, while Duncan MacLeod braced himself for the onslaught of anticipated pain and horror. 

The five players in the scene, three living and two dead, seemed locked in a frozen tableau as faint crackles began to sound throughout the room. Cassandra moaned a little as she watched the light begin to coalesce around Kronos and Silas' forms, but neither Duncan nor Methos paid her any attention. 

Suddenly, the Quickening energy began to leap from the prone bodies. Bolts shot out randomly, striking the remaining lights in the room. Sodium bulbs began popping with a cascade effect, and glass sprayed out in rapid bursts. Sparks arced out of exposed wiring on the walls. 

Then, seeming almost sentient, the energy began to form into seeking tendrils. Gone was the random search for an available outlet to ground itself. The two clouds of white, glowing haze drew themselves in briefly, then shot out violently, Kronos' energy striking Methos squarely in the chest. 

******************  
As the fireworks raged, Methos calmly accepted the invasive inner effects of the Quickening. The knowledge that he was taking inside himself the essence of a man who represented the depths to which he himself could sink was not pleasing, but he had long ago made peace with the personal sacrifice that must sometimes be made to emerge victorious after a challenge. So your defeated enemy wasn't a nice guy. Get over it. You're alive. 

He felt the first tentative tendrils of Kronos' being entering him, and he relaxed, opening himself in full acceptance of the inevitable. There was a sensation of familiarity as some of the more pleasant moments of his days with Kronos were suggested and played in his memory, moments of camaraderie and laughter. He smiled slightly, unconsciously groaning; he had once felt something close to affection for his brother. 

Then this congenial sensation was elbowed brusquely aside and the full depth of Kronos' domineering and brutal nature forced its way into Methos, taking his breath away momentarily. He gasped spasmodically, taking a step or two backward as his mind was assaulted by the anger, the viciousness, the violence that had made Kronos the man that he had been. It was as though the essence of the leader of the Horsemen sought not to enrich and empower his host, but to control and enslave him as he had done to thousands in life. 

****************** 

Duncan was breathing raggedly even before he felt the first insidious touch of Silas' essence seeking entry. The Highlander had never regarded the Quickening as a pleasant experience; to him, it had always felt more like a violation than a blessing. But never before had he felt so much resistance to accepting the spoils of a challenge, because he had never before won a challenge in the way in which he had just defeated Silas. 

Acutely aware that there was enough blood on his clothes to account for killing several people, Duncan was powerless to stop the tears that formed in his eyes and traveled in irregular paths down his cheeks. In a million years, he would never have believed himself capable of the kind of savagery he had just displayed. He had been driven to rage before, certainly; had even lost control of himself on occasion and done things of which he was not proud and which he tried not to think about. 

But never – _never_ – had he been driven to butchery in combat. 

He knew that this time, he'd ventured into obscene violence; knew it because he'd seen it in Cassandra's horrified eyes when it was over. Knew it because he couldn't remember a time when he'd continued hacking on an opponent after he was clearly dead, taking the head almost as an afterthought. Such a victory was not deserving of the reward that the Quickening represented. No one should gain power and knowledge by descending to such hideous depths. 

So when he felt Silas' being come knocking to claim its place in his soul, Duncan, in his shame, tried to bar the door. 

******************  
Silas' energy slid sinuously toward Duncan. It paused for a moment, then broke like a wave over the Highlander. The tendrils of the Quickening enclosed him like a fist. There was none of the easy acceptance that Methos allowed Kronos' Quickening. 

Feeling resistance, bolts of lightning jumped from Duncan's body, touching down on every available surface. Methos' sword, still anchored in the wall, served as a convenient lightning rod for the excess energy. Waves of it rode the sword, and sparked the wiring, starting fires within the wall. 

A high whistling noise, which could almost be described as a keening, echoed through the arena. Cassandra, now huddled against the low wall around the base, thought for a moment that she heard the mournful tone of a flute. But in another breath, the illusion was gone. 

Chancing a quick look up, Cassandra saw Duncan MacLeod, hair blown around his head with the tremendous energy surrounding him. Lightning seemed to shoot from his outstretched hands, and his whole body screamed of pain and horror. One of the bolts touched the wire that suspended the base target, and as it crashed to the floor, Cassandra ducked her head once again. 

**********************  
Light and energy poured into Methos. As quickly as one new tendril formed, it was drawn into the well of five thousand years of life and experience. While Methos contorted in the throes of the Quickening, stray bolts hit the fallen catwalk behind him, superheating its structure. The building material used in Laserocity, while up to code for most recreational situations, could not withstand the energy poured out by a Quickening. 

Flames, already kindled in the walls, began to lick up around the collapsed catwalk. One of the discarded laser rifles exploded with a loud bang, but none of the occupants of the room even noticed. As the tongues of fire reached greedily for more fuel, smoke began to fill the room. 

*******************  
Methos' didn't feel his body jerking and contorting with shock and resistance; all his consciousness was engaged in keeping his own spirit in command. There would be no Dark Quickening here today, he resolved grimly. He had not risked everything he held dear to free himself of the Horsemen forever only to become Kronos' puppet. 

His mind was filling with visions of mayhem, of the Horsemen slashing and raping their way through the ancient world. Angrily, he held fast to his solid rejection of that life, that attitude. He would not be turned by such images. They held no attraction for him anymore. 

Suddenly, the visions changed, and he was watching himself only, terrorizing screaming villagers, murdering innocent people of all ages – often while they were running away – and "conditioning" newly acquired slaves. His breathing became harsher as he watched himself raping and torturing Cassandra, saw the look of cold purpose on a face he could barely recognize as his own. He was not aware of his head whipping from side to side in a desperate gesture of rejection, nor of his guttural screaming as he fought against the vivid memories. 

********************  
Cassandra risked another look up as she felt the heat beginning to gather in the room. For the first time since the Quickenings had started, she glanced over at Methos. What she saw there froze her blood, and her gasp, when it came, was soundless. 

The Quickening arced around Methos like a power line downed by a storm. Energy lashed his body mercilessly, and he swayed and arched with it. Flames leapt behind him and silhouetted his powerful body and most of his face. His eyes, however, glowed with a light that was both mad and anguished. He was, at that moment, more fearsome than Cassandra had ever seen him, and she tore her eyes away. 

Gazing back toward Duncan, Cassandra noted he was still trying to deny the power of Silas' Quickening. His body was wracked with shudders, and the excess energy that had sought outlet in other surfaces throughout the arena was gathering itself as if to assault its unwilling host. 

Cassandra's ears popped as all the air in the room seemed to rush toward the writhing cloud around Duncan. Even the flames died down as their source of fuel disappeared. The energy massed itself, and struck at Duncan like a fist. The flames roared once more, and Cassandra's renewed moaning was again ignored. 

******************  
Silas' Quickening seemed perplexed, as though finding a completely unwilling receptacle was a thing never anticipated. It would not, however, be denied. Like a SWAT team entering a criminal's hideout, the essence of his slain opponent kicked open the door to Duncan's soul, splinters flying and timbers groaning in protest, and stomped on in – uninvited, unwelcome, and undaunted. 

Falling to his knees, the Scot sought refuge in physical diminishment. His arms came over his head as though trying to protect it from falling debris, and he curled himself into a tight ball, the top of his head nearly touching the floor, roaring his resistance all the while. 

The first images he received were completely unexpected, snapshots from the life of a simple, pastoral boy who spent more time with animals than with people. It was obvious that Silas' greatest pleasure had come from communing with the creatures of the wild, and equally obvious that this preference and his mental simplicity had made him a target for cruelty in his young life. 

With the images of Silas' life with the Horsemen, the emotions shifted and a love of violence emerged. This, then, was the way Silas chose to cope with the ancient memories of teasing and torment – by repaying it a thousandfold to all who ventured into his path. 

Suddenly reinvigorated, Duncan uncurled himself and bent backward, arms wide, fists tightened, and bellowed toward the ceiling. He would not give in, he would not accept this Quickening. Silas' essence became compressed and was pushed back toward the door, a bit at a time. 

******************  
As Duncan renewed his fight with Silas' Quickening, the fires in Laserocity continued to spread. The smoke that filled the room obscured visibility, and the crackling of the flames could be heard over the roar of Duncan's displeasure. Cords of energy whipped back and forth over his tortured body, sending surges into the walls and ceiling. Tiles began to fall from overhead, and the remaining portion of the catwalk creaked ominously as its pillars burned. 

Methos, meanwhile, stood wrapped in a nimbus of light and energy. His tormented expression revealed almost as much pain as Duncan's wracked body did. Sparks and burning embers tried to land on his outstretched arms, but the energy cloud seemed to repel all trespassers on its preserve. 

Coiled possessively around its intended target, Kronos' Quickening massed; Methos seized with the increase of energy pouring into his slender form. Behind him, the last sodium bulb in the arena burst, but it was a small sound, easily lost in the cacophony of destruction. 

*****************  
There was tremendous pain in this remembering of Methos' past life, vast, unending depths of it, and in this moment he felt he would do anything, anything at _all,_ to escape it. With that thought came a fading of the images and a sense of consolation, of comfort being offered for a price. 

He was nearly persuaded to pay when he perceived something unexpected in the unkempt assortment of memories and emotions: pain, great pain, but pain which did not originate within Methos. He tried to look closer at it, to determine its source, but a surge of violent anger shoved him away and covered up the pain, hiding it from view. More pictures of his own misdeeds were thrown up on the viewscreen of his mind, as though he were being told to pay no attention to the man behind the curtain… 

******************  
Though Duncan's resistance was partially successful in repelling Silas' Quickening, some things still leaked through. He saw snippets of interaction between the Horsemen, and particularly between Silas and Methos, moments of extreme poignancy in which Methos showed the big man great patience, kindness, and friendship. It was difficult to reconcile that such a relationship could exist within the framework of a band of killers so ruthless and sadistic that they had intimidated the entire known world. 

The contradiction occupied enough of Duncan's mind that some of his concentration was siphoned away from his battle to drive out Silas, and more of the dead man's knowledge and power became fused with his own as he fought to fortify his resistance again. 

******************  
Whatever it was that Kronos had kept buried in his heart and soul all his long life, he sought still to deny in death, and Methos realized with a shock that this revelation was his own salvation. Forcing himself to look squarely and without recoil at the memories of his life as a monster, he felt the shame, the pain, and the regret, but no longer rejected or denied them. He knew that acceptance, not denial, was the key not just to survival, but to growth, to progress. To a healthy life, not just a continued life. 

Smiling slightly again, Methos embraced all that he was, all that he had been, and all that he would yet be… and this allowed him to embrace Kronos' essence as well, and not be dominated by it. 

******************  
Cassandra spared a moment to fear for their physical safety, noting that a ring of fire was quickly engulfing the former base area, and parts of the walls and ceiling were falling constantly. More important though, was the rapidly changing dynamic of the Quickenings before her. 

Silas' Quickening was being driven partially away from Duncan's body. Kronos' Quickening, although being accepted, almost embraced, by Methos, was reacting to the reformed mass of energy just feet away. Now, although both Quickenings still battered at their new hosts, tendrils of energy were beginning to swirl together in the center of the room. 

Again, the air seemed to be sucked out of the room, and channeled into the new energy mass that twisted between Duncan and Methos. Slowly, a pillar formed, a seething mass of energy that pulsed and turned in a mindless quest for somewhere to vent its rage and pain. With lightning quickness, the pillar changed. Two lances shot out, one to Methos and the other to Duncan, piercing both men through the chest. 

This time, Cassandra didn't moan. She screamed.


	28. Chapter TwentyEight

**_Chapter Twenty-eight _**

The smooth flow of Kronos' fully-accepted Quickening hit a hiccup-like snag, and Methos at first thought it was coming to an end – until he felt himself being painfully drilled anew with a fresh and furious bolt of energy. Before he could speculate on this unexpected occurrence, Methos became aware that the essence entering him had changed, somehow… become marginally less hateful, more friendly to him… 

Silas? his mind asked, sensing the familiar presence somehow fused with Kronos'. But how…? He couldn't formulate a theory in his current state, but he did manage the realization that his friend MacLeod was probably receiving a fusion containing part of Kronos, as well. 

Methos had time to feel profound regret. 

****************** 

So much of Duncan's strength had been consumed fighting off the initial surge of Quickening that when the reconfigured energy mass launched a fresh onslaught, he was hopelessly vulnerable. Images and emotions flooded his being, seeming to stretch his very skin to the point of tearing. 

To his horror, this was a new essence being downloaded, one far more grounded in hatred and brutality. Images and the general presence he was feeling told him that, inexplicably, he was receiving part of Kronos' Quickening as well as Silas'. . As Duncan realized that his earlier resistance may have caused this, a childlike knee-jerk desire to take back his earlier resistance coursed through his panicked mind. Duncan wanted no part of this new evil. 

Opening eyes he hadn't realized were squeezed tightly shut, the Scot looked to Methos, as though for help. 

****************** 

Methos began to wonder how much more his mind and body could absorb before simply disintegrating under the pressure of so much energy. If _he_ was feeling overwhelmed, what must it be like now for the much younger MacLeod? Gasping and groaning, the eyes of the world's oldest man sought out his friend, seeking to offer what support he could under the circumstances. 

He found the Highlander already meeting his gaze, looking agonized and terrified. As they established an emotional connection through eye contact, the bizarre mass of light hovering between them seemed to shrink slightly, then abruptly swelled in size and brilliance. A renewed burst of energy was thrust through the bolts that tethered them to the mass, and Methos thought that he just might explode. Instead, the excess seemed to spew through his eyes toward MacLeod, and a connection of a different kind was created… 

****************** 

Cassandra's scream cut off as abruptly as it began. She watched in horror as the combined Quickenings of Kronos and Silas impaled Methos and Duncan. Never, in her long life, had she seen anything as inherently violent as the spectacle before her. And she could see her own horror reflected on the faces of the two men before her. 

Seeking shelter against the wall around the base once more, Cassandra was surprised to feel warmth emanating from it. A quick glance around the room confirmed her fears, the fires, though lessened by the oxygen sucking force of the double Quickening, were still burning uncontrolled. They had obviously spread to the interior walls now. 

Just as Cassandra reassured herself that the danger from the fire was not imminent, something new happened with the Quickenings. Feeling the change both on her skin and in her soul, she looked up to see a massive flux in the energy pouring into Duncan and Methos. 

As the Quickenings cycled through their hapless hosts, spearing them through hearts and eyes, energy began to arc around the room again. Bolts of lightning grounded on any available surface, and Methos' sword finally fell from the wall, a blackened husk. The remains of the catwalk were hit several times, and crashed to the floor. Where it had been bolted to the wall, flames shot out. Realizing that the whole building could collapse at any moment, Cassandra silently prayed for the Quickenings to end. 

************************** 

The new beam that ran between the immortals seemed to pull Duncan forward even as the lance through his heart pushed him back, and he feared he would be torn in two before this misbegotten Quickening was finished with him. For a while, he was so focused on the hideousness being poured into him via the Kronos-Silas synthesis that he didn't notice a third essence in the mix. 

The substance of what he was being forced to absorb together with his acute desire to reject it brought Duncan once again to his knees. He had reached his limit on shame and horror; there was no relief possible now but death. Could a Quickening actually kill an immortal? All he could do was hope so. 

_No!_ a voice cried sternly from somewhere within him, a fervent and unambiguous denunciation of death as an escape route. _There is little that cannot or should not be endured if the outcome is survival,_ Duncan thought, knowing that the thought was not his own. At the same time, he was surprised by a sudden feeling of detachment, the sense of what he could only think of as "space" inside himself – room in which to distance himself from his emotions, to turn away from the noise and clutter and think with clarity. 

His burden was great, there was no doubt of that. But would dying make up for anything he'd done? Surely it was only by continuing to live that Duncan could possibly hope to redeem himself. Thinking of Cassandra, he realized that if he were to die right now, her last memory of him would be of a hate-crazed maniac hacking a man to pieces. He did not want _anyone_ to remember him that way. 

This new objectivity gave him the strength that clear-eyed evaluation often brings to one who is overwrought. Duncan stood slowly, rising first to one knee, then fully upright. This detachment had possibly saved his life, and certainly his sanity. But where had it come from? 

He looked across the base at Methos. 

****************** 

The new bolt of energy had taken the Quickening to a whole new level, one which Methos had never before experienced. Suddenly he was downloading two files simultaneously. 

There were some compatibility issues with this latest file. 

Methos was shocked to find himself overwhelmed by a sense of personal responsibility, of… could it be… _guilt?_ He'd done a lot he wasn't proud of in the past week, had much to regret, but none of it had been done without carefully weighing the options and choosing the course most likely to allow him to survive. Business as usual for him. He'd outgrown second-guessing and hand wringing in his extremely long life. Regrets, yes. Self-flagellation, no. 

So why was he now feeling so desperately guilt-ridden, so convinced that he'd done the unforgivable…? 

He looked sharply over at MacLeod. Oh, bloody hell… 

Seeing his own actions through the lens of the Duncan MacLeod Code of Honor and Decency, the old man was inundated by feelings of shame, remorse, and self-loathing. Despair descended on him like a thick black but all-too-substantial cloud that rested on his shoulders and pushed him downward, until he finally collapsed to hands and knees under the pressure of it. 

So this is what it's like to be the Boy Scout, thought a part of Methos that had managed to remain detached. Good god, how did MacLeod even manage to function under the sheer knee-buckling weight of this ridiculous psychic burden? He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but the feeling of despair still held its stranglehold on most of him. Laughter was not a selection on the drop-down menu. 

Lethargically, as though moving through molasses, Methos felt around inside this borrowed mindset, looking for anything that could serve as a handhold for climbing out of this pit. There had to be something around here, something that made it possible for MacLeod to keep going. If there isn't, he thought, then when this is over, I'll take _his_ head. I'd be doing the poor bastard a favor. 

When he found it, Methos at first didn't recognize it for the salvation it represented. It was just too simple. It was passion. Passion for honor, passion for loyalty, passion for friendship and responsibility to others… passion for life. Trying it on as though it were a coat loaned to him by a friend, Methos felt a kind of low-key eagerness, a sense of subdued excitement that he remembered well but had not experienced on his own in quite some time. It was the feeling of looking forward to seeing what comes next. 

He tried to deny how good it felt, but the damned honor code interfered. The truth was, he had deliberately weaned himself from this feeling. It tended to lower the odds of survival, the only thing he really believed in, the only god he still worshiped and to which he paid meticulous tribute every minute of his life. Joy was a risk, because one tended to get caught up in it, and that could cost one one's head. 

And yet, in the past two hours, he had done several things to dishonor the god of survival. The prudent course would have been to give up and join Kronos when it was clear he'd been consummately outmaneuvered. Instead, he'd put himself on the line to save MacLeod and Cassandra even though he could have spent that energy finding a way out for himself. 

Scowling, he admitted that it was even possible he'd done all this to save more than just the three of them. Maybe freeing the world from the threat of the Horsemen had played a part… 

Okay, so maybe I believe in something besides survival, he snarled internally. No need to get maudlin. Let's get this done with, can't we? 

Surprisingly, the psychic weight seemed to be lifting, enough for him to sit upright, on his knees, but not in despair, and not in supplication. Lifting his arms and face skyward, Methos raised his voice – not in anguish, but in laughter. 

********************** 

The sound of laughter rang through the arena. It carried over the roar of the growing fires; it floated across the crackling energy of the Quickening sparking in the base. Cassandra jerked her head around as she heard it, unable to believe its source. 

That Methos could produce this sound confounded her greatly. She waited in trepidation, anticipating the mocking edge that underscored his laughter so often. Instead, all she heard was joy, and a reckless merriment befitting a much more sanguine individual. 

As Cassandra watched, the connection between the two men was broken. The Quickenings spent the last of their fury in one final burst of energy and dissipated grudgingly. Both Methos and Duncan fell to their hands and knees, panting with exhaustion, as the fires moved to encircle the base. 

Getting shakily to her feet, Cassandra moved toward the two men. She seemed torn about which to offer aid to first. Thankfully, the decision was taken from her as both staggered up of their own volition. 

"Come on!" she cried over the rising roar of the flames. "We need to get out of here before the roof collapses." Taking each of the men by an arm, she herded them toward the exit. 

"But isn't the door still locked?" Duncan roused himself from his post-Quickening daze to ask. 

"I do believe I have the key." Methos hefted Kronos' broadsword in his hand. A loud crash followed his words, and all three immortals turned to see one of the interior walls disappear in a crumbling sheet of flame. "Although we might not need it. Hurry!" 

Duncan, Methos and Cassandra rushed through the arena as fast as their aching bodies, and the treacherous terrain, would allow. Burning embers alighted on their clothes and hair, trying to claim them for the raging fire that burned all around them. Seeing the exit wall already burning, they crashed through the door, pulling it from its weakened supports. 

Lying sprawled on the pavement, the three survivors gasped for breath. Heaving themselves to their feet wordlessly, they turned as one to Methos' Jimmy.


	29. ChapterTwentyNine

**_Chapter Twenty-nine _**

Methos, Cassandra and Duncan staggered away from the burning building. Although their wounds had healed, they looked a mess. Soot smudged their hands and faces, their clothes were tattered and burned in places, and Duncan looked as though he had just escaped a slaughterhouse, which wasn't that far from the truth. Cassandra's upraised hand halted the disorderly procession across the parking lot. 

"What?" questioned Methos tiredly. "What else could possibly go wrong today?" In response, Cassandra pointed silently to a pale hand and arm lying on the pavement at the rear of the Horsemen's Hummer. 

When the three compatriots rounded the vehicle, they found the body of Smith, Kronos' mortal associate, his throat slit. "Well," sighed Methos, "guess this explains where Kronos disappeared to." At Cassandra's questioning look, he continued. "When we all entered Laserocity, Kronos ducked out, then came right back. I thought he might be up to something. This," he gestured to the corpse, "must have been that something." 

"He was following you." Cassandra's voice was low as she spoke the words. 

"What?" Methos and Duncan chorused together. 

"He was following you," Cassandra repeated, gesturing to Methos with her hand. "I recognized him when we entered Laserocity. I realized he was Kronos' ace-in-the-hole." 

Methos clearly was putting two and two together and had no need to ask how she had come to know he was being followed. 

"And you neglected to tell me this because …?" Although Methos' words were said calmly, the look in his eyes belied that calm. Cassandra fell back a step at the ferocity of his glare. 

"Methos!" Duncan stepped between the others. "It was too late then, and it's too late now. Let it go." 

Dragging breath into his lungs, Methos mentally chanted a mantra. One part of him observed that those mantras had been lost to him in his quest to defeat Kronos. That same part rejoiced silently at the returning calm they represented. "You're right, of course. We have other things to worry about now." 

Methos moved to grab the corpse under the arms. "Come on, MacLeod, gimme a hand here," he called out. "We don't have much time before the fire department shows up. Grab his legs so we can put him in the building." 

"Damn it Methos! You can't just throw the guy in there to burn. And shouldn't we do something about stopping the fire?" Duncan's sense of outrage and responsibility sounded in his voice, but were tinged with confusion. 

"What would _you_ like to do, MacLeod? Wait here for the authorities and try to explain four corpses, three of them beheaded, and yourself covered in blood? 'No, really officer, I had nothing to do with it.'" Methos' tone redefined droll. "And as for the fire, I'm sure they have insurance." 

Fists clenching, Duncan ground his teeth together to still his impulse to yell at Methos. "Of course they have insurance. That's not the point. The point is –" 

"Duncan, this is for the best," Cassandra interjected gently, "and you know that." 

Shaking his head at his own objections, Duncan grabbed the other end of the body and helped Methos quickly place it in the rapidly burning building. Having been party to many a disposal after a Quickening, Duncan marvelled at his concerns. Perhaps they were the result of the feelings his savagery had raised. 

Rejoining Cassandra, Methos once again took charge. "Right, we have to get this thing out of here." He gestured toward the Hummer. "Don't want to leave any clues. I'm sure Caspian's prints are on record somewhere." As most of his conversation seemed directed toward himself, neither Cassandra nor Duncan bothered to interrupt. "Now if I know Kronos, he probably left the keys … here they are." Holding the keys aloft triumphantly, Methos turned and tossed them to his companions. 

"MacLeod," he directed, "you and Cassandra take the Hummer. Dispose of it somewhere then go back to the loft." 

"Wait," Duncan said urgently. "Why don't you and I take the Jimmy and Cassandra can take the Hummer? I—" 

"There's no way you're getting into _my_ truck looking like that." Methos' tone spoke volumes, as his eyes travelled Duncan's blood encrusted form. It also covered the fact that he was doing his best to avoid any deep, meaningful discussions about the double Quickening and the other events of the day. 

"Okay, she'll take the Hummer." Duncan lowered his voice as much as he could and still be heard over the fire. "I'd really like a chance to talk." 

"Sure, MacLeod, later. But let's clean up after ourselves first." Methos turned away and hurried toward the Jimmy, ignoring Duncan's attempt to maintain eye contact. 

Cassandra laid a hand on Duncan's arm to forestall his outburst. "We really don't have time for this. Duncan, let's go." The sound of sirens in the distance reinforced her point. 

Duncan nodded silently, watching his … friend? … moved across the parking lot. 

"I'll be in touch," Methos called as he sprinted the last few yards to the Jimmy, leaping in as if the Hounds of Hell were at his heels. 

******************************** 

Duncan and Cassandra climbed into the Hummer, pulling out mere moments before the first fire trucks arrived on the scene. They headed toward the docks where Duncan hoped to leave the Hummer to be stripped for parts. Neither seemed anxious to break the silence that filled the space between them. 

Duncan shifted in the driver's seat, clearly uncomfortable in his clothes. Cassandra saw him touch his shirt as though to scratch himself, only to yank his hand away upon feeling the heavily caked blood. His expression revealed his residual feelings of guilt. 

She was glad to see this, for two reasons: one, it meant that he was still Duncan enough to be ashamed of his descent into butchery with Silas; and two, she saw no trace of an overload of guilt in the expression. Whatever had happened to him between the killing of Silas and the end of the Quickening, Duncan had somehow emerged able to cope with his shame. 

And somehow, she had emerged able to cope with the memory of watching his frenzied hatchet job. The bond of shared trauma could truly work miracles in some cases. 

They passed a few more blocks in silence, while Cassandra tried to formulate what she wanted to tell him. "When this began," she finally began, startling Duncan slightly, "all I could think of as a satisfactory ending was to see Methos lying crumpled, bloody, and headless. No matter what else happened, that and nothing else would gratify me." 

Silence filled the Hummer again, until Duncan took the bait. "And now?" 

She paused again, trying to put into words the rather confusing feeling of peace she now had. "Now… my needs seem to have changed. Along with my perceptions." 

Duncan's hands tensed on the wheel at that, and she realized that he was not sure whether she meant her perceptions of Methos or of him. 

"None of us is as simple or as complex as we'd like to believe, Duncan." 

He gave her a look laced with distracted irony. "Are you writing fortune cookie messages now?" 

Ignoring that, she pressed on. "When we try to understand why we've done a violent thing, the simplest explanation is usually correct, even if it's unpleasant. It's tempting to try to build an elaborate chain of logic to explain it, but most of us act violently on instinct or in the heat of strong emotions, nothing more. We like to think we're above that, but no one is. Everyone loses control sometime." 

He said nothing, not looking away from the road. 

"None of us escaped this contest without surrendering something." 

Despite his continuing tension, his face betrayed surprise. "Surrendering?" He seemed to think she'd misspoken, but she only nodded. 

"We surrendered our own perceptions. Of each other, of our relationships to one another… of ourselves, our own boundaries. I was forced to look some things in the face today. I didn't like everything I saw, but… I also can't say I'm sorry it happened." 

Cassandra surprised even herself by saying that. Until that moment, she hadn't noticed that she no longer felt resentment toward Methos for propelling them all into the maelstrom that the contest had become. She was, in fact, rather amazed to note a distinct sense of closure. A sense, almost, of having been… healed. 

Suddenly, she no longer felt like talking. Duncan continued to glance at her periodically, clearly expecting more pearls of wisdom – or at least an explanation of her last statement – but Cassandra simply stared out her window, exploring her inner landscape as the exterior landscape passed silently, unseen.


	30. Chapter Thirty

**_Chapter Thirty _**

Methos approached the dojo slowly, remembering the night just over a week before when he had fled here from Kronos. Shaking his head ruefully, he recalled just how much had changed during that time. All his brothers were gone now; Duncan was fully aware of who and what Methos had been; and Cassandra … well perhaps they had found some closure. 

Straightening his shoulders, and unconsciously mimicking his actions of the week before, Methos strode toward the door of the dojo. Unlike the last time, there was no immediate sense of another immortal. Knowing that the Thunderbird was still parked outside, Methos assumed Duncan was in the loft and headed for the elevator. 

Halfway to the loft, Methos felt the shiver of another immortal. But instead of feeling the expected wariness that usually accompanied such presence, Methos was encompassed by a sense of familiarity. He _knew_ that it was MacLeod awaiting him in the loft. 

Methos stepped out of the elevator to see Duncan leaning against the kitchen island, katana nowhere in sight. "MacLeod, nice to see I'm still welcome." 

"Would you leave if I told you that you _weren't_ welcome any longer?" Duncan asked neutrally. 

Methos opened his mouth to deliver a pithy rejoinder, but was halted by a strange feeling, almost a compulsion to tell the truth. "As a matter of fact," he replied slowly, "I believe I would." 

"You know, Old Man," Duncan almost sighed, "I believe you would too." Turning slowly, Duncan retrieved two beers from the fridge, handing one to Methos as he moved to sit on the couch. "So …" 

"So," agreed Methos. "By the way, what happened to your house guest?" 

"Cassandra left shortly after we ditched the Hummer. Now, we really need to talk about what happened, Methos." Duncan refocused the conversation as if Methos had never tried to interrupt him. "And this latest development," Duncan gestured to encompass everything since Methos' heralded entrance, "just makes it even more important." 

"MacLeod," Methos managed to drag Duncan's name to multisyllabic heights, "couldn't we just accept that something happened and move on? Do we have to dissect everything into little pieces? Didn't you learn anything from the last week?" 

"I learned many things in the last week." Duncan was determined to have his say, regardless of Methos' efforts to sway him. "And one of the things I learned was that there is more to you than meets the eye." 

"Speaking of eyes," Methos drawled as he settled into his customary sprawl on the couch, "did I ever tell you that I helped Galileo develop his telescope? We originally intended it for _seeing more_ of the ladies." 

"Forget it Methos, it won't work." At Duncan's businesslike tone, Methos abandoned the sprawl and leaned forward a bit, hands clutching his beer bottle between his knees. "You won't distract me that easily." 

"It would have worked on Joe," Methos exclaimed in a tone that bordered on petulance. 

"Perhaps," conceded Duncan, "but I think he would have been humouring you. And I'm in no mood to humour you right now." Squaring his shoulders, Duncan turned to face his friend and launched into all the things he had longed to say since they had escaped the burnt out wreck of Laserocity. 

"Methos, during the Quickening, I, well, I sensed you. I sensed your detachment, your aloofness, your ability to survive; it was what pulled me through. It seemed that I got a part of your Quickening." Methos began to squirm as Duncan continued. "And then, today, when you were coming up in the elevator, I knew it was you. I didn't even think about it, I just knew it was you. How is this possible? Has this ever happened before? What does it mean?" 

Duncan would have thrown more questions out, but Methos' upraised hand stopped him. Visibly biting his lip, he settled back in his chair and waited for the eldest to enlighten him. 

"I could spin you a tale of joint Quickenings, and increased power, and magic beyond your ken, MacLeod." The petulance was gone from Methos' voice, and in its place was fatigue. "But it would have no more truth than the image of Adam Pierson that you had stuck in your thick Scottish skull before this last week." A tilt of Methos' head and a subtle lift of one eyebrow stopped Duncan's outraged gasp before it gained full voice. 

"Don't you see, MacLeod, you're doing it again." Some passion returned to Methos' voice as he rose from the couch to stride about the loft. "Even knowing who I was, and who I am now, you still want me to have all the answers. You still want me to be the _wise, old immortal_. The one who can make it all have meaning for you." 

"That's not true!" Duncan surged to his feet in his haste to express his stifled outrage. "I just want you to … I want … I mean, you should …" 

"Yes, MacLeod, what is it you want?" 

"Oh hell!" Duncan slumped back into his chair. "I wish you weren't right Old Man, but I guess, this time, you are. I want you to make it all make sense for me." 

"I can't do that for you, MacLeod." Methos' voice changed once again, this time betraying gentleness and understanding it did not often show. "I cannot change who I was, I will not change who I am, and I do not know any more about what happened during that double Quickening than you do." Putting down his empty beer bottle, he moved toward the elevator. 

"But I will tell you this," Methos said as he slipped on his coat. "If you did receive part of my Quickening, and with it my survival instinct, then I'm glad. It should give you the time you need to figure this out for yourself." Stepping in to the elevator, he couldn't resist getting in one last parting shot. "And maybe I won't have to save your sorry arse so often." 

Pushing the button, Methos felt the elevator start to lower him to the main floor of the dojo. Just as his head began to sink below floor level of the loft, he heard Duncan's voice call out to him, "You're welcome!" Chuckling, Methos reflected that while things weren't perfect between the two of them, they would be all right. 

*************** 

One evening, a few days later, Methos sat alone in his apartment, reading a "description" of ancient Celts by Strabo, an Asiatic Greek "historian" who had spent most of his life in the library at Alexandria. He couldn't help chuckling over the "observations" stated by the author as fact which were, it was known to modern readers, in fact either hearsay or outright invention. What had once passed for research he found positively comical these days. 

He was roused from his amusement by the sense of an approaching immortal, and Methos instantly reverted to cautious alertness. Setting down the text carefully, he reached for the sword that had been thoughtfully placed just by the arm of the chair and stood up, smoothly, in a single motion. It never occurred to him that a week ago, he might have assumed it was MacLeod coming to visit. Now, of course, he could tell that it wasn't. 

Now standing against the door, he placed his eye to the peephole… just in time to be startled by a firming knocking. "It's Cassandra," said a muffled voice. 

Sighing as his heart rate began to calm again, he opened the door. "It's a little early for a sparring session, isn't it?" he asked with a sardonic smirk. "Wouldn't you rather come back after I've been asleep for a few hours?" When she didn't take the bait, he leaned against the doorjamb and dropped the sarcasm. "I thought you'd left town." 

"I did," she replied quietly. "But I realized I'd left something unfinished." 

For a brief instant, Methos was absurdly certain that she was about to draw her sword and slay him while he stood with his own sword dangling uselessly in his hand. But her air of serenity never wavered, nor did she make any movements, aggressive or otherwise. He felt like laughing at his crazy assumption, but managed to control that impulse. 

"I owe you my thanks," she said. "You saw that I was torturing Caspian for the sheer pleasure of it, and you made me realize that before I went too far. You brought me back from a very dark place." 

"Simple self-interest. If you'd developed a taste for barbarism, I might've had to fight you after Kronos, and I was already tired." 

She stared into his eyes, and Methos shifted uncomfortably. She had certainly developed the capacity to unnerve him in the millennia since they'd first met. 

"I understand that accepting thanks makes you feel vulnerable, so I won't press. But know that I do thank you." Seeing his expression turn scornful and his mouth opening to let fly a sarcastic response, she again did the unexpected. She laughed. Not the hard, bitter laugh of the past week, but a light-hearted, girlish sound that, once again, disarmed him. 

Shaking her head in an almost patronizing manner, Cassandra turned, still smiling, and began to walk away. Relieved that the encounter was ending, Methos straightened in preparation for going back inside. He called out to her one last time, intending to say, "If you're ever in town again, call and warn me." 

What he actually said was, "I should have stopped him." 

Cassandra halted and turned slowly. They stared at one another with identical expressions of stunned confusion, she because she wasn't sure what he'd meant, he because he was. 

Bugger all! he thought, mentally kicking himself repeatedly and ferociously. I was mere centimeters from a clean getaway. 

She had taken a step or two closer, still staring, still awaiting an explanation. Everything that was him screamed to toss off a flippant remark and retreat to the safe haven of his apartment. But there was a tiny marginal element in Methos now that was _not_ him, and somehow, it was running the show at the moment. _Damn you, MacLeod!_

"When Kronos came to take you from my tent, I should have stopped him. I wanted to, but I didn't." 

He watched her face, hardly daring to breathe, disgusted with himself for making the revelation. He fervently hoped the Highlander would be rigorously and regularly tormented by the part of _him_ the Quickening had bestowed. 

When she spoke, her expression was impassive, eminently rational. He found that, like nearly everything else about her, unnerving. 

"If you had stopped him, he would have killed you."  
  
"Possibly." He had enough male ego to be mildly affronted at the automatic assumption that Kronos would have been the victor – although he knew it was true. 

Cassandra looked at the wall and shifted her weight in what, for her, amounted to fidgeting. Methos felt some gratification at the small sign of vulnerability. The scales should never be tipped too far in one direction; it was unnatural and upsetting. 

Not looking at him, she said slowly, "We all make choices. Sometimes we regret them, but usually, they reflect who we are and what is foremost in our hearts. For you, your own survival was more important that any feelings you had for me. I couldn't accept that for a very long time, but now, I do." 

He frowned slightly. "Why?" He couldn't see how the events of the contest had brought about this acceptance, as cathartic as it may have been. 

"Because," she answered, coming closer, "I have seen that _you_ have not been able to accept it." 

Raising a sardonic eyebrow, Methos said, "So, knowing that I've been tortured by my choice all these centuries eased your mind." It was out before he realized he'd made another revelation he didn't intend. 

"No. At first, it gave me some satisfaction to know you had suffered. I saw it as your punishment for betraying me. Now, I see it as proof that I did mean something to you, and that part of you, at least, wanted to come to my defense. Somehow, that makes you a better man than I'd given you credit for." 

"So I'm no longer a monster in your eyes." 

Cassandra's expression darkened as she looked downward. "My definition of 'monster' is up in the air at the moment." 

Methos sighed, thinking a moment before he spoke. "You know, it's a common misconception in Western culture that good can and should triumph over evil by strictly ethical and noble means. That is hogwash, pure and simple. The unvarnished truth is that sometimes, to defeat a monster, one has to _become_ a monster, or at least adopt monstrous methods. It's not pretty, and it doesn't make for an uplifting or noble story, but it's the truth. 

"So, you lost yourself in the moment and started to enjoy Caspian's anguish. It's not attractive, and it revealed something about what you're capable of that makes you uncomfortable. Fine. But wherever you went for that moment, whatever it took to bring you back, _you did come back._ That's the important thing to take away from the experience." 

He fell silent, a little shocked at making such a speech, but continued leaning casually in the doorway with his arms folded. The sword he'd long since tucked inside the doorway. 

She looked up at him, serenity back in place. "You're right. I hope that Duncan understands that as well." 

"I suspect he does," Methos said dryly. "If not, he will in time." 

In the silence that followed, it struck him as ridiculous to have had this entire conversation standing outside his apartment. "Would you care to come in for a drink?" 

In her eyes he saw the acceptance, then the hesitation, and he realized that for her, the apartment was both his turf and the site of her struggle for empowerment. For him, of course, it was sanctuary. 

"Better still," he said, "why don't we go somewhere else? Two equals, sharing a drink and becoming reacquainted." He deliberately avoided the word "friends." Presumption was dangerous. 

She nodded, and he ducked inside to grab his coat, and they proceeded to walk away from the apartment. "By 'sharing a drink,'" she said, "I assume you mean I get one of my own." 

The joke surprised him, but he kept his balance. "If you insist." He made a show of sighing heavily. "Can I at least tell you what you have to order?" 

"No," she said, shaking her head emphatically. "I will order whatever I want." 

"Lot of bloody adjustments you're asking me to make," he said, scowling comically. 

"I may even want to tell _you_ what to order." 

"Oh, no. I am the undisputed master of my own drinking." 

They continued in this manner, talking, occasionally laughing, moving forward along on the path to wherever they were headed. 

THE END


End file.
